She has a full day of work ahead and a forty-five minute commute. Her three children will be at school all day, after which two will have music lessons and one hockey practice. Her husband is out of town on business all week.
She posts a picture of her alarm clock: 5:45 AM, and the words, “Only Wednesday.”
She is my workout buddy on Wednesdays, younger than I by, perhaps, twenty-five years. We are warmed up, waiting to run, to heave the barbells, to do the burpees. The clock is ticking and we are talking about the days, about last week’s class, about what we’ve been up to.
I can’t remember the context exactly, but her words make sense and also are words I might have said–words I did say–years and decades ago, but nothing that I say anymore.
She says, “It’s a good thing. It makes the time go faster.”
He is home from class, making his lunch before launching into his to-do list. Which is considerable. He is in the kitchen and I am on the deck, talking with him through the open door that gives on to the breakfast room in this house we moved into when he was two and where once, long ago and yesterday, I painted his two-year-old belly with a smiley face.
I say aloud, “I can’t believe it’s already the 25th of January.”
And he says, “I know. I’m so glad.”
Because he’s getting married in July, and when you’re getting married in July, you want it to be July Right Now.
I smile to myself, and I don’t say what I know: July will be here in five minutes.