It was summer when we sat on wooden steps at the Mississippi and watched while the sun sank into the horizon. A man picked on his guitar and while he played I thought of your timelessness, and how minutes and seconds would no longer matter. You'd taken them from me, and replaced them with the measure of a lifetime and promised that the sun would ebb and flow for us in our own sky.
Then time took a rythm for us.
When your illness surfaced, each second took a magnificent weight. Each one grabbed for life-rafts in uneasy seas. The winter was upon us, and we looked through grey light to cold waves crashing into a wooden pier. I could see our days gasping for air.
Time took a new rythm for us, slow and cherished, like your favorite song.
And now I love the moments we have together.
No matter what season of time comes before us, I know that we're given them to enjoy, to use as we can, while we can.
I know that the best thing isn't time, it's taking your hand in mine.
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