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Time

Sitting at a desk in my mother’s house to write, my daughter gave me perhaps thirty seconds before she followed me and crawled into my lap.  As I pecked away, now onehanded – whenever I tried to use my right hand it would get in her face a bit, and she energetically would thrust it away – she started picking cards off the desk, sorting and shuffling them over and over.  When my attention wandered, I saw that they were laminated mass cards, of the sort given out at wakes.  Little Mary enjoyed playing with them, moving them from her hands to her lap and back again, sorting and shuffling them, running her fingertips along their edges, putting them to her lips.  I looked at the names – these were the men and women I grew up with.  Neighbors, family friends, my father, my grandmother.  How strange it is to see a new generation grow amidst these reminders of the ones who are gone.

2 Comments

  1. Otilia kloos

    You mean, conventional” time”, the sort that we are facing every day. If you were riding the bicycle “in relation” to your daughter, the speed , the motion of both of you, and the space perception of the shadow of both of you would have been altered. As for the cycle of generations, you are talking about the biological foat that we used to wear and now it’s gone. But the concrete biological clock is still there, manoeuvered by Someone with precision unaltered. We, as readers, really like seeing little Mary either sorting out the dogmatic message of those cards to check the theological content of the language , or trying to help you sorting out languages. Roger Penrose would still question the phenomenological ( without denying he mystery of our world)approach of our mental abilities. Thank u for the article.

    Posted on 24-Mar-17 at 10:56 am | Permalink
  2. Otilia kloos

    Biological coat/pardon

    Posted on 24-Mar-17 at 10:57 am | Permalink

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