I don’t live in the future and I don’t live in the past. I don’t live in the present either. But I am rooted in time. The hamster wheel of my life keeps spinning and I keep running, the past throwing itself in front of me, the future beckoning, and the present never real. I think this is the only way to live. It is the only way to keep generating light.
My mother fell off the wheel. Or maybe she climbed off, but she got caught in the black abyss of despair and depression. Many of us paused in our frantic running to reach down and shout out, “Come on. Come on back up.We’ll help you.” She never did.
She rests now in a small cemetery in Hutchinson. I haven’t been there since we buried her. Most days I don’t think about her; I don’t miss her. But sometimes, especially at night in the wintertime, when there’s a strong, cold wind and the branches of the trees outside my house creak and crack, I think about her. Especially then, I imagine the thick snow covering her grave, the wind blowing across the dark field, and I remember her loneliness.