I'm in the kitchen, chopping onions for 15 bean soup. Portishead plays from the library. Outside the kitchen window, the sun sparkles off the golden leaves falling from the ash trees. Behind me, Matt swears softly as he puts together a Wayfair pantry.
The scene is strangely nostalgic, as if it or something similar has played out many times before.
I take a moment to think about it. It has.
Front and center in my life as an adult, being the person in the kitchen, behind the menus and the music choices.
Adjacent in my life as a child and teenager. How many years did I spend watching or listening to my mom cooking, while music or the TV - Star Trek: The Original Series, or Highlander, or Quantum Leap - played from the living room.
There are so many moments these days that splice past and present. I'm not sure whether it's me being maudlin or just a side effect of growing older.
I can be cooking chicken and rice and flash back to any random weeknight dinner in high school with my mom setting the same dish on the table.
The lyric of a song I haven't listened to in years puts me in my old granny-hand-me-down Buick, driving to see Matt after an afternoon class.
The sunlight slants a certain way through the leaves and I'm with my dad in the hills around Oberkail, having a picnic and watching the sunlight and shadow roll over the fields.
A deep blue and cloudless midsummer sky takes me to Phoenix, long summer days by the pool, three night sleepovers with my bestie, late nights reading, writing, dreaming.
So often, these days, I find myself thinking: where the hell did all the time go?
And then one of these flashes happens.
And the hours and weeks, months and years and all the things contained within them come back to me.
Time hasn't disappeared. It's been spent.
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threesentenceficathon.
