time slip

I cannot separate their existence from the reality of the timeline. Every moment that I have been, they have been too. Even if I can remember not knowing them, on some fundamental level, I also cannot

The timeline once again has me in its grip. I am in disbelief at the sheer magnitude of the content. So much has already been lived. So many stories, iterations, chapters, seasons, lives. In the book I have been reading this week, the narrator says that she thinks referring to life in terms of seasons is inaccurate. They do not circle back around. They come and go. I think this is true, but so much less of a comfort than the cyclical movement of the seasons; the planets, the stars, the moon. The seasons seem like they can only be an effective metaphor in terms of life as wildly ephemeral. I have been in this season, sort of, before because I have been a mother to a six-year-old on two other occasions. They were very different six-year-olds with perhaps some similarities, but mostly none. The biggest being that I am their mom and Chris is their dad. Their dogs are Jeb and Al and Tuti. Jeb was here for each of them when they were five and six. I mean, I could keep pulling here but it is equal parts pleasure and pain.