Making Time Material
Nov 17 2021
When, after such a long absence
I returned to the old neighbourhood
it won't surprise you to hear
how everything looked smaller.
But despite some incremental changes
it was still much the same.
Even though the children had largely vanished,
and the street that was their playground
had been abandoned to cars.
Even though the house that once was ours
smelled of exotic food
instead of plain cooking
and packaged soup.
And even though years had passed
and new people displaced the old.
Although some diehards had stayed,
incrementally aging
in the graceful decay
of their family homes.
Time goes fast
and gets even faster,
its passage compressed
as we get older;
as we settle into sameness,
and entire years
fade from human memory.
So it took the sapling
I planted half a century ago
to give substance to time,
its wood
incorporating each year
year after year.
Making time material,
a physical object
that occupies space
and can be seen and felt.
I looked up into its canopy
of overarching branches
and sheltering leaves.
Touched the bark,
taking comfort in its warmth
and pleasing roughness.
And with all my weight
leaned against its trunk,
which was immovable
and thicker than a grown man.
A basic thing, a tree.
But sobering.
How change is relentless, no matter what.
How age has crept up on me.
And also, by my simple act, how I'd left a legacy
in the relay of life,
a baton
handed-off
in the next generation
and whoever will follow.
A living thing, that is certain to outlast me,
rooted in the ground
where life began
for me as well.
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