The sticky blue carves itself around her lips. I bet it took one hell of a wet nap to get that off, I think. She looks away from the camera. A blue bib adorned with red lace wraps around her neck. On it: fronds and ferns, lizards and tadpoles. Behind her, barely noticeable, is her little brother: atop his head soft strands of hair worn like a weathered cap.
It wasn’t until today, all these years later, a decade in time, I noticed him there. I’d always thought the photo was taken shortly before his birth. One last ice cream outing for the first born before the arrival of her baby brother. But he’s there, barely visible behind her dangling curls, nested in a car seat in the rightmost frame.
I think to myself, as parents of growing kids do, “Where did the time go?” These children are here, but the sticky blue gets wiped clean almost immediately by their own hands now. No need for mom and dad to dab a napkin and wipe away. They no longer select the Superman flavor. The colors of the ice cream are muted now: chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate. Maybe Moose Tracks here and there.
It’s hard to say where time goes. It doesn’t disappear as I once thought. It moves forward. We know this. But it moves another place too: inside you. That’s where the time has gone. I hope it always stays there when it’s time has come. I like to remember you there in the electrical currents and the deep recesses.
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