Didn't I just write about this? I'm in this groove, and I guess I'm not going anywhere for a bit. Time works like this: this is something I did not know when I was younger and am only fully realizing now. Like reading, and bike riding, for Lily--suddenly days, weeks, years of anticipating, experience, practice, desire--condense unexpectedly into instant reward. And then for days, weeks, years, something else seemingly utterly unattainable, time stretching out into infinity.
Today, we swam together, Lily and I, and I knew what she was thinking; she said it once, actually. "Swimming is next," I think she said, with shining eyes, thinking it would be magic, like the bike riding must have seemed: Now I cannot, but now I can! And I, old and consumed by the passing, and stopping, and racing of time, smiled slightly, suspecting that today would not, in fact, be the day Lily swam on her own--thinking fate likes to even things out--but I held her lightly in the water, walked back farther away for her to come to me, just in case.
I don't want to blink my eyes and have her not need my hand under her back as she floats. Floating, if done correctly, freezes time.
3 comments:
Oh Amy, I still want to hold my hand under Brook's back to support her but she really doesn't need it. So poignant. Trust me, you still have plenty of time.
Brook arrives tomorrow. I'm well aware of time passing. I'm 63 and I haven't seen her in 13 months.
We're both excited. Just like you and Lily.
I was thinking about this a lot all summer, watching Henry learn to swim ("Now I cannot, but now I can!"). It's one of the most amazing experiences of being a parent.
Amy, there are so many beginnings and so many endings yet to come--all of which you will experience with as much angst and as much joy.
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