Last Saturday, the 25th, was the fourth anniversary of Britt's death. It feels like forever. It feels like yesterday. At the same time. It is a forever of yesterdays ago. I have been thinking about time a lot lately: never enough of it; always too much of it; how to fill it; how to spend it; what to do with all the time before and after and since and until.
Time. I took time off from work, knowing that I would be distracted and ill-suited. Four days loomed ahead of me and I wondered how I would fill them. One day for Nothing. And I had it and I loved it and I hated it and I did not get dressed and I ate chocolate and drank wine and I cried and read and slept and I slept some more. Three more days that slipped by in a blur of manufactured busy-ness and chosen pauses. Sharp and bitter and sweet.
Time. And the lies that people tell you about it. Time heals all wounds. No, it doesn't. In time, you'll feel better. No, I won't. It will get easier, with time. No, it hasn't. Enough time. After a time. Given some time. In time. Time passes. Time haunts me.
And, then, last night, I finally read a truth about time, nestled inside Comfort by Ann Hood. I cannot really say I found comfort in the book (a beautifully written and unflinchingly honest memoir about losing a child), but I did find some words that rang very true. These were the truest: "Time does not heal. It passes. And carries us along with it."