Time is one of those things we all know to be a construct: hours exist only in clocks, days change at sunset or sunrise or in the middle of the night. And today, after three years, time compressed yet again.
It is true what they say, that a minute can be the longest time in the world, and a lifetime but a sigh. Today, once again, I have my attention drawn to the fact that Mam died three years ago, and it feels unbelievable that it could already be so long, and still feel so untrue - as though I could just pick up the phone (or get on Skype) and have a chat. But no.
Time, that wonderful trickster, is also a surprising healer. In its unreality, it knows whatever we cling onto is but a phantom; so it works its magic and lulls us to complaisance. And once we're strong enough, it lets us open our eyes and poof! we have reached another era. It makes sure we are so busy following its ticking that our hearts will beat to its rythms, sustaining us, tying us to life.
I am grateful to time. Its shadows mean I can still feel and remember, but memory is now clean of anger. Like a mountain spring, time has eroded the rage and anger at death, and left my love for my Mam sparkling and loving the sunlight.
I don't care where time goes. I'm just comforted to know it's there, it was there, it will be there. For me today, for others tomorrow. Because time is, and isn't.
It's always time to love.
