My How Time Flies

Our great grandmother said it.
Our grandmother said it.
Our mother said it.
“My How Time Flies.”
And for years, we chuckled with a slight eye roll in our youthful innocence – feeling sorry for them – thinking we would shortly have it figured out. Wondering why over and again they’d say it just like it was all they knew, how time just slips through their fingers ~ when for us
IT was practically standing still as we made big plans for the future and twiddled our thumbs waiting for our destiny to happen to us – concocting clever explanations as to why their destiny was so lackluster and typical:  childbearing, dinners, laundry and the such.
But my eyes caught me in the mirror just the other day and I saw myself mouth those words, as I pulled them taut.  “My How Time Flies.”  And this time, the sound of those words had a different ring.  I’d never understood it before.  But now I knew that I’d let it catch up to me just like all the generations before: streaked mirrors that will never perfectly gleam, laundry baskets that will never completely empty, pots and pans that will never stop soaking, children who grow up, mothers who die, and wise words that eventually find their meaning.

“My How Time Flies.”

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