“You’re gonna be old in a shake of a lamb’s tail,” my oldest joked just last night. Maybe, he half joked. My husband just reached the big 6-0 and I am not far behind. Young by today’s standards. I’m not whining, just coming to terms with the fact that time is precious, but I still spend time frivolously.
Not long ago, I was walking to St. Mary’s School early mornings and visiting my grandmother in the afternoons. She was always there waiting in the yellow apartment house with the long stretch of brick walkway shaded by the “claimed to be” oldest tree in Biddeford. It was a chestnut that threw prickly seed pods.
It seems not long ago, I spent days at the beach with my mother from the cool of early morning, through the hot hours and into the late afternoon when the beach was covered in shadow. We would trudge back to the car, our hair dripping and our skin tight and sandy from the sea and sand. Not long ago, I hunched on the couch, my father and I yelling at the TV, urging the Red Sox to pull through in the ninth. Not long ago.
Those were times of certainty. I hadn’t a care that the minutes were being used up, I was young with years before me. I was certain that my grandmother would always meet me at her door with chocolate chip cookies and stories of her cross country trip or the 1964 World Fair in New York City. I was certain that my mother would always float with me in the salty Atlantic and barefooted walk the beach that seemed to stretch on forever. And one day, my father would surely witness the Red Sox busting through the curse that was said to withhold them from the glory of a World Series. I was certain.
Precious minutes are not certain. They are gifts. Spend them well.