Time

Time has passed, as it does.

Working as I do for the largest non-governmental shipper of parcels in the country, the last three months of the year have been very busy, and even more depressing. I have written nothing in that time. Not here, not in any of my notebooks, and certainly not a word in my novel. When you have just finished working a thirteen, fourteen, sixteen hour day, and not easy work either, the ability to be poetic and profound just doesn't seem to be there. I came home every night, collapsed in my recliner, and tried to watch the whole of The Daily Show that my Tivo had captured before falling asleep.

This is not an "oh woe is me" moment by the way, merely some mournful early Monday morning lamentations of times gone by.

And has time ever gone by.

In that horrific little period, I turned 30. This is a milestone year for me, and I am going to have to make it count. I am going to have to do all the little things that one does to keep the thoughts of bullets through the head at bay. All the little things that are the pursuit of happiness. I look back on thirty years, and I don't see near enough of it.

I do have moments though. That's all happiness is is moments. Some longer than others, but still just momentary in the grand scheme of time.

As a child, I had this beautiful white dog named Lady. She was half Japanese spitz and half something else. She had a black snout and tinges of orange along her back. She was probably the best friend I ever had. When I would run across the field next to our house, she would chase me, jumping at my heels, trying to knock me down. When she did, she would jump on me, playfighting, biting at my wrists and hands, but never too hard. I remember whenever I felt sad, she somehow knew. She would come up to me, put her head on my knee, look up, and wag her tail.

About four or five months after we moved to Utah, the apartment complex we moved into decided it would no longer allow pets without a fee. Lady was old, so my parents had her put to sleep.

The last track meet of my ninth grad year was a multi-school invitational at E. C. Glass high school. Most of the schools in central Virginia showed. I ran the 800, and due to an injury, the 4x400 relay. I had the second fastest split on my relay team, an event I usually didn't run in, but that is not what I remember most about this meet. For the 800, I was placed in a heat with all the other ninth graders. I ran a 2:03, a personal record. Nobody else in my heat did better than 2:30. Heading into the last 100 yards I had a full quarter track lead on everyone else. I had just hit the wall, but I pushed myself as hard as I could that last 100 yards with all my friends running along side me on the infield, cheering me on. Nobody in the tenth grade heat had a better time than me, and only two juniors and three seniors beat it. Someone told me later it was the best ninth grade time in the state that year.

Next year, my parents split up for a while. When they got back together, we moved to Utah, and I didn't run anymore. In Virginia, I ran track because all my friends did. At Woods Cross High, I hated half the people on the track team.

There was a moment behind a girl's house whom I had just given a ride home from whence we worked. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever known. I loved her from pretty much the moment I first saw her and I think she may have loved me. I never kissed her, I never told her how I felt. She was perfect;  and I wasn't. I was scared because our ages didn't match, our religions didn't match, and our families didn't match. All stupid things I know now for sure. But that moment behind her house. . . I had walked her to her back door, and I gave her a hug. She put her arms around me and pulled them tight, and for thirty seconds she did not let go. The sky was clear, I could see every star, and the world was silent except for her heartbeat against my chest. For thirty seconds I was happy. For thirty seconds I held the most beautiful thing I had ever known in my arms.

And then, the inevitable: we let go.

And time passed on.