The Bittersweet Sting of Time
The Aspen tree leaves flutter freely as the wind filters through them, mimicking the noise of rushing water. I inhale the warm, dry breeze. It fills my spirit with peace. I tighten my grip ever so slightly to the navy-blue shirt I’m clinging to, the one that belongs to my love. His hand finds mine and remains. Remains. I wish this moment could remain. I wish it could last forever, but that’s not how time works.
My head nuzzles into his chest. My eyes prickle as they fill with tears. A melancholy happiness spreads through me from my chest to the ends of my fingers and toes. I inhale again, noting the mineral smell of the sand in the desert air and his mild scent that’s slightly reminiscent of pine. A calmness comes over me. A stillness. A special stillness…
***
There are only a handful of times I’ve felt this particular kind of stillness in my life. I can’t help but think back to a few: at thirteen years old on the 4th of July laying on a pool raft, listening to the sound of the cicadas and watching the sky in anticipation for the next round of fireworks — at fifteen years old on the patio staring at the stars with my father and realizing for the first time how small we all are — at twenty years old coming home from college on fall break - a dark, chilly evening made warm by mom’s chili, the laughter and light cursing of my siblings and me playing Fortune Street, the suspense in the room as my father and I watch the latest The Walking Dead episode.
These moments of stillness are usually followed by new understanding of time. However, sometimes the understanding precedes the stillness.
***
Like when I was six, I told my stuffed animals I would likely stop talking to them as I got older because I wouldn’t believe in them anymore. I knew things would change.
Then at fourteen, upon hearing “Never Grow Up” by Taylor Swift next to the bonfire with my family, I looked around and felt a sadness wash over me. I began to regret not going to breakfast on those lovely, crisp Spring mornings in St. Louis with the rest of my family because I wanted to sleep in. I didn’t want all of it to go away, but I knew it would. I knew things would change.
Then at twenty-two, my senior year of college. My best friend had just moved out of our apartment after getting married. I was alone. It was late. It was dark. The only light came from the streetlights of Nashville seeping in through the window and from the tiny flame of the Target candle on the coffee table. Glass of $5 rosé in hand, I stared out the window and watched the cars go up and down West End Avenue. My best friend and I would never be roommates again. I would be getting married soon. Two of my siblings would be in college. The other was traveling the world. My parents would be in Florida. I’d move back to St. Louis alone. There would be no more coming home from college to a house full of family and puppy snuggles. Even the puppies were old dogs now. This friendship, my family, would never be the same again. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I knew things would change.
They say it’s a blessing to realize all this when you’re young. Perhaps it is – realizing how precious individual moments are of looking back wishing you had fully experienced them. However, it’s also painful. The sadness that comes from transitions and changes is overwhelming, especially when everything is so good as-is. It can sometimes prevent you from fully experiencing them. Only within the past couple of years have I started to feel the “sweet side” of the bittersweet sting of time. It’s difficult to stay in the present, to not worry about the future, to not let your past dictate your now, but I’m learning how, slowly but surely. I have to. So, in those moments where the realization starts to sting, I actively remind myself to enjoy it and take it in – the laughter, the adventure, and the stillness because I know things will be different, not necessarily worse, not necessarily better. Just different. I know things will change.
