We have been tricked.
Cheated.
Robbed by a cruel thief.
It partly sneaks up on us without our noticing, yet other times stabs us with a sharp knife of pain, longing and mourning.
Our children, who once consumed our every moment, are gone. They have been replaced, traded off — perhaps by sullen or perhaps by cheerful and helpful teenagers; perhaps by emails and occasional phone calls which span a distance — perhaps only by an empty silence which echoes heartbreakingly.
Every now and then a reminder jerks us back in time and then whiplashes us into the present. At a store, perhaps, your hands instinctively grab toward a little toy or candy which your child would love. And then you remember. That child has grown. There is no need for such a toy.
Perhaps one day there will be grandchildren who would delight in such a toy.
Perhaps there are grandchildren and you get the toy; perhaps there are grandchildren and you would not have a chance to give the toy.
Dirty, sweaty little hands no longer grasp ours. Our necks aren’t hugged. Our laps are empty.
The floors, the furniture, the back seat of the car once were covered in glitter from little girls’ toys and dresses. Perhaps glitter shines and sparkles anew, left behind by prom dresses.
Perhaps a teenager comes to you in tears, looking for solace in a moment of turmoil. Your child is back, momentarily, in your arms, leaning for strength, crying for comfort.
“Time heals all wounds,” you say. “What now seems forever will go by in a flash.”
No, not possible, you are told. Tomorrow is too hard to face.
You point to a childish sticker still stuck on a piece of furniture.
“Remember when that cartoon character seemed so special and important? Remember when I told you not to put stickers on the furniture?”
“That was a long time ago,” comes the reply. “How weird that 10 years have gone in a flash. It seems like yesterday, in a way.”
“And like that was yesterday, so long ago, tonight also somehow will suddenly be a long, long time ago.”
That childish sticker was too hard to get off the furniture. Back then, it seemed a problem. Now, it’s a relief. A teeny, tiny bit of the child remains in the house.
The teenager stands up, brushes off.
“Time heals all wounds” is the flip side of the coin to “Time flies.”
We can’t stop time. It cures us, it robs us, it cheats us, but it always wins.
