The days seem to skip by now, like the flat grey stones we threw into the river, long ago, watching them bounce along, seeing who could get theirs to reach the opposite bank first.
Back then, when a school term seemed to last a thousand years to our young minds, and the months between Christmas and our birthdays were subject to a detailed countdown, the time, all of it, belonged to us. We controlled it. We rode time, joyfully, as we approached long, sun-filled weeks of summer holidays.
And then we looked back. Twenty years, then thirty since we last wore a school uniform, even though we can vividly recall the sound of the school bell ringing, as if we had heard it only yesterday. The children who replaced us have left too, and their own children rush, like summer thunderstorms through every moment. .
Some say that time is an illusion, a man made concept. It probably is. We need to be able to put it all into words, to help us to understand that with every revolution of the earth around the sun, we become a different creature. A bald, helpless baby becomes a whirlwind of energy in what seems like no time all. And the whirlwind will change into another creature, with the years, and then another.
When we have lived through many sunrises, and watched the sun set on each year, we learn that almost all we experience is finite. There is a last time, we might not know when it happens, for everything. The last time we played outside with our friends, until we realised that the streetlights were shining and that our parents would soon be looking for us. The last time we held our lovers in our arms, never knowing what tomorrow would bring.
We cannot pause time, rewind it, or slow it down. We can only live in each moment; whatever we do in this minute, this hour we are living through now, will change our tomorrows.