Time isn’t marked just by the ticking of a clock; it’s etched in the landscapes of our hearts, measured in moments of love and the pangs of loss. Driving through my wife’s hometown, I saw the lake of her youth, a place holding echoes of laughter and sun-drenched summers. We shared ice cream, a simple sweetness against the backdrop of shared memories, her hand warm in mine. The expensive watch she gave me became a constant reminder, even as scratches blurred its crystal face – time, marked by affection and everyday wear.
Our son’s origins are in Ethiopia, a land where life and death exist starkly side-by-side. I recall seeing a dead horse by the roadside, a grim monument quickly claimed by the wild. Five years ago, we brought our son far from that landscape, a kindness, perhaps, but also a severing. I yearn for him to know the chocolate-milk dirt roads after rain, the vibrant green hillsides, the driver who refused the zoo’s concrete confines, finding beauty in the natural world instead.
I wish his birth parents could witness his joy in swimming, hear him read aloud, feel the warmth of his spirit. I wish he could speak Oromo, the language of his beginnings. Our family story, overflowing with love, carries the weight of unspoken absences, a testament to how we are Learning To Measure Time In Love And Loss, intertwined and inseparable.
The rhythm of my days has shifted. The early mornings once dedicated to writing are now filled with the gentle ritual of making my son breakfast. Late nights are rare. My work is fulfilling, yet it often spills into the evening, my laptop vying for space amongst the markers and toys on my desk. My wife, my beautiful wife with silver threads now woven through her hair, no longer wears a bikini, a youthful symbol she believes time has claimed. This small surrender speaks volumes about the subtle ways we measure time’s passage, in both acceptance and a touch of melancholy.
My parents, too, are navigating time’s gentle erosion. Night drives are a thing of the past, hobbies slowly fading. Yet, this summer, my mother baked a box of cookies just for my son, a gesture of enduring love. Watching them converse quietly in the kitchen, I saw time not as a thief, but as a sculptor, reshaping relationships, softening edges, revealing the enduring strength of love amidst the inevitable losses that mark our journey. In these moments, love and loss become the true measures of our time, each beat of the heart a testament to a life deeply lived.
