They say the drive to grandma’s house is always longer than the way home.  Three hours on Sunday night speed by in a way that’s unimaginable on a long Tuesday afternoon.  At twenty-five, the years stretch out before me in a long spool of ribbon, curling and extending out as far as I can see.  Some weeks last for months.  Was it really three years ago that I sat utterly lost in the familiar chair in your office?  Have two passed since I drove away from an anonymous coffee shop, tears streaming?  Or just one since I stood in the drizzle before a flag-covered casket?  I’ve heard that kids grow up too fast and that time speeds along when you get older.  When there’s less life to live, that it slips away quickly.

What do we call this phenomenon? That time speeds up when you least expect, when you least want it to.  This cross between anticipation and dread, between rushing forward and all the while trailing a spider thread out behind you, marking where you’ve been.

The Edges of Time
by Kay Ryan

It is at the edges
that time
Time which had been
dense and viscous
as amber suspending
intentions like bees
unseizes them. A
humming begins,
from stacks of
put-off things or
just in back. A
of claims now,
as time flattens. A
glittering fan of things
competing to happen,
brilliant and urgent
as fish when seas

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