Calendars Without Clocks

As if you could kill time without injuring eternity…

-Henry David Thoreau, Walden

These kinds of Spring days are the ones reserved for Winter dreams. The kind of light that streams down every street, pours in through the windows begging even the boarded up souls to come out and play. Every bird wishes to be heard. Every arbor, an amphitheater.

I meandered toward the forest before cutting back to the main road. Coming around old homes with pheasant piccolos I went back toward town. I wanted to witness humanity soaking up this Eden-esque day. The bustling of our six blocks of shops poured forth with free energy.

Sauntering South I continued the road leading home when I found an old man in a motor chair stuck in the mud. I tried to liberate him with all the strength I could muster in my sandals but the chair and the man it carried would not move. My mind darted for solutions but there was no conjuring of remedies. 

I told the king of this now stationary seat, I was going for help. So like a child again, I ran, making haste to the abode of that old Irish man down the road. Knocking on his door, I patiently waited. Then he appeared, ready to accept my invitation.

Together we hastened back up the road. We moved the man, motor, and mobile throne all at once. As this old regent thanked us, my work wasn’t yet done. 

On approach to home, gazing across the greenery, it was time to mow the small patch of grass we call our own. Moving the machine from the garage and into the yard, I entered a meditation as its blades began their task. Focused. Continuous. Simple. I was in such a state of peace I continued pushing the mower across the needles of the trees. Over to the widow's yard I continued my practice, mowing each section like a mystic. Another moment to drink in the delicacy of the day. 

Returning home, our kitchen was kissed with scents of fresh garlic, reminding me that yes, today was the day to take dinner to the new mother and father in town. A British woman married to a local man, my wife and I drew on our European influences using local goods. We whipped up our own Balearic medley for the new parents and as I arrived like a door dash diplomat, the family of three sat on their porch perfectly. 

There is no time when an infant arrives, only the passing of days and nights. I was stealing seconds with this little boy in my arms. Perhaps that is why this part of speech is called present perfect. 

Now at the end of the day, upon returning home, I realized I had forgotten my phone.

Until next week,

-Steven

This essay would not have been possible without the generous edits and insights of

Rick Lewis

,

Catalina Muñoz

,

NeildaVerse Notes

, Hari Nair,

Alan Hibbard

,

Elizabeth Edwards

, and

Grace Sydney Smith

.

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