Wrinkles in Time

And I feel the way that every child should,
Sit and listen, sit and listen;
Went to school and I was very nervous
No one knew me, no one knew me.

As a child I think one of my weaknesses was a tendency to live moment by moment. And who knows, maybe a lot of us kids from the 70s learned this lesson, growing up in abusive, mostly single-parent households where planning for the long term never made much sense. But as a result, I see myself now as slow to react. And this morning was an example that reminded me of a childhood episode.

In 1979, my aunt and uncle were leaving for Germany for three or four years. Three or four years to a child is like eternity or ever after, so for all intents they were leaving my life forever. And on the day of their deployment I was sitting in class coloring, and my teacher walked in and said, “Brandon, your mother's here. She wants to know if you want to say good-bye to your aunt and uncle.”

Part of me loves remembering childhood memories. There’s something comforting about transporting myself back in time to the little person I was. Such a shame, of course, I only usually remember the low points. But this was a good memory. I remember what it was like to color and to love it. I can feel what I felt back then at that moment with my picture in front of me, so much white space to fill. Living in the moment. Filling in that space and knowing I could get this one thing right. String together my tiny triumphs.

“No. I want to finish my drawing.”

"Okay, I'll tell your mom."

I finished my drawing about ten minutes later. I remember feeling the heaviness seep out of the vacuum that had once been my little chest. The white space had been filled. I couldn’t fill my own one with crayons. I burst into sobs.

The teacher asked me, “What's wrong?”

"I want to say good-bye!"

Somehow, my teacher was able to get a hold of my mom, who returned to pick me up. She took me to the train station and I had my good-bye.

This morning in my staff meeting it dawned on me that my wife and children are headed to Romania tomorrow for two weeks or so. Two weeks or so to an overemotional, guilt-wrought husband and father is like eternity and ever after. Did I play with them enough this weekend? Did I spend more time reading with them or watching their movies? No. I did whatever it is that I do. Last night my wife was watching me type up the last few lines of a chapter that’s due next week. I felt her staring at me, and gave her a cross look.

“You do a lot of thinking,” she said.

I thought about this. The problem with my thinking, though, is that it’s always in the present. I don’t think enough about what’s ahead.

And that’s why it took until this morning’s staff meeting for me to realize.

The staff meeting only lasted an hour or two. But for someone with a family on hold, an hour or two is like eternity and ever after.