My mom would have turned 68 today. I never know how to mark this day. Growing older means that more and more days on the calendar become attached to the memories of those no longer here. But a negative suggests a positive, an absence reminds us of a presence, and contemplating our short time here requires remembering why we want to stay, why we would be sad to leave. To consider the work and conversations left unfinished; the things left unsaid, the ideas that were not shared. We are but fitful flashes of an eternal light, said Spinoza, and we can describe this light in any number of ways.
I found a rare picture of my mom young and smiling, caught beneath the overheated gloss of a 1970s photo and sporting an incredible yellow collar. I wonder what she would have made of this world.
A defeated president fumbles toward a coup d’etat, generating insanities that have somehow exhausted their power to shock. Another recording-breaking day of infections and the outbreak maps require new colors. Orange and red no longer suffice; there are now deep burgundies and purples. Went to the doctor for my annual exam. Blood pressure taken, blood drawn, and heart monitored. I learned that it’s far more challenging to balance on one leg if you close your eyes. This seems like crucial information that I should have known by now.
