It's time. Time for what I am not exactly sure, but it's time. My father-in-law passed last month, preceded seven years by his wife, my mother-in-law. This recent passage set me to thinking about writing and about time. Again, I don't know why.
Perhaps it's because we have their clock, a windup Regulator clock with the soothing tick-tock, tick-tock, broken only by hourly chimes. It has a pleasant timbre, reminding us of how mom and dad quietly lived their lives, punctuated periodically by the sound of their expressive love.
Perhaps the clock reminds me that life has a cadence, but lest we settle comfortably into that rhythm, the chimes awaken us to creative action.
Perhaps it is simply a reminder of the passing of time, a briefly opened window of opportunity. We are all dust, but for 80 years we are dust with shape and form and function. That leaves me about 25 more. What will I do with it? I don't know, but it's time.
Thanks, Dad, for the reminder. And, thanks, Mom and Dad, for the model and challenge of lives well lived.