Holding on to Time

Holding on to Time

The relevance of time hits hard on the southbound slide of life. Memories have more meaning. Places have nostalgic value, and old friends are rare and cherished.

When we were the kids, we gave no attention to nostalgia. We were too busy creating our own memories to pay much attention to the wisdom of our elders. In the turn of a moment, we are the elders.

Two screens stare back at me for eight hours every day. There have been many different screens edging their way into my soul over the past 35 years. I stare back at them, wondering if I have a soul?

I snap out of it realizing I do have a soul. My soul is intertwined with my beautiful, intelligent and charismatic daughter. She is my heart, my soul and my muse.

My father died when I was 9. I spent my life knowing very little about him amongst the drifting of the families. I knew he was a war hero in the Korean Conflict, but nothing of what he did there. I knew he was superintendent at a coal mine and I got to fish off the coal barge in the river.

In all, I remember little segments of my brief time with him. A sledding accident that earned me six stitches in my chin. I remember crying out of pain, but more out of fear. I remember mom telling dad that if any of us got hurt he would be taking us to the hospital. After walking down over the hill we met her on the porch. She had no chance to “I told you so,” before dad said “I know, we’re going.”

This is my most endearing interaction with dad. He turned my sorrow into laughter as we sang with the radio during the trip. He soothed me as I tried to escape the stitches and we stopped to eat on the way home.

These are the memories that sustain me. These few insights into his heart and character made me know he was the best dad in the world. A massive heart attack removed him from us at an age that was far to young. Our family began to dissolve.

After the age of nine, all information stopped.

As I stare down the tunnel of demise, my overwhelming urge is to tell my daughter everything I can about me.

It has always been my belief that the meaning of life is, well, death. We start chasing that goal at our first breath hoping not to catch it. Our time is longer when we are young. Our time grows shorter when we get old.

It is our job to pass knowledge to those forming behind us. We are to get that next generation ready for the time when they wish for more. After the wisdom has been passed, the ultimate goal will be within our grasp.

I am sure it is just the perception of time that throws us. A minute is 60 seconds. That fact never changes. Yet, with the relevance of the time spent, it seems that minute can be one second or 10 minutes long.

I wish I could have just some of the time back that I wished away. I wish for all of the times that 3:29 lasted ten minutes until clock out, be returned. I wish for every time I have waited for people to show up while watching my watch, be returned.

The time I want now can never be returned no matter how hard I wish. The unfortunate thing is that I still wish time away. I still want that 3:30 to get here quicker. I still want time to yield as I wait for important events. I still wish time away between my daughter’s visits.

As I start looking at time as finite, I realize how much I could have done, or planned while the minutes crept by. My mind could be put to better use than trying to count down seconds.

It seems all of the world’s troubles could be solved if everyone used that idle time to think of solutions. We can gather all of the wasted time and spend years on implementing plans. It would be wonderful.

The irony is, that time, having been productive negates it being wasted. No matter the circumstances, that time can never be recovered.

I thought I had forever, boy, was I wrong. Months go by like weeks. Year’s escaped my grasp when the little girl I held, who was about to experience the world around her, graduated college last month. She has surpassed all of my hopes and dreams. She is, and will always be my hero.

It is the remaining time I have on this earth that is making me rush to tell my stories. She has, of course, heard most of them while growing up. I want them to be a physical representation of the tales of her father. I want her to have what I do not, a true account of her father.

I want her to be able to pass my wisdom, or lack there of, to her offspring. She can then pass on her knowledge in the predetermined cycle of life.

I want her to be proud of my accomplishments. I want her to learn from my many mistakes. Want, is not the right word. I need this.

I need for her to understand the life I lead, and the life my future will hold no matter how much time I have left. I need her to remember the grandparents that she was raised by along with her parents. I want her to have the desire to reach back even further.

I do find that writing about my past brings comfort. I no longer have wasted time waiting for the clock, time often escapes me and 3:30 comes and goes without notice. I have a mission and it must lead to a fast conclusion.

I still feel the pain of the brick of time slapping me in the head. The relevance of my time remaining has become the most significant aspect of my life. I need to record my knowledge to pass it on. I need to complete my mission.

I can bemoan the lack of remaining time, or I can choose to grasp it as an opportunity. I choose the latter. No more time will be wasted. That precious commodity must be used productively.

Now, irony raises it’s head again. In being productive, time will go by even faster.

It is amazing the difference in time relevance after the realization of finality.

All over one diagnosis.