Making Space for Time

I just finished reading a Smithsonian article about time and how there are scientists (Einstein included) who have questioned its existence.  Or at least its existence in an if a, then b sort of way.  The article read like a truffle, small but dense--almost too much for one sitting.   And, while I'm not sure I "get" the concept of a four-dimensional universe--one in which things coexist side by side rather than front to back--I can acknowledge that time and space are odd, evolving creatures.

It's why life sometimes feels bigger, as though someone polished all the atoms so they could shine a bit more.  That's how the last day has felt to me--not flashy, really, but expansive, in tiny ways.  And slightly slowed down, so that I can take more of it in. 

Whatever the reason for these thick, stretchy moments, I am glad for them and have volunteered to sign up for more, even if they don't register on anyone else's scale.

So much went into my yesterday that listing the things seems like an injustice, as though a reader could never possibly understand how nice all those tiny moments were. How much I enjoyed languishing over the Sunday paper, or sitting with friends at church.  How much I savored catching up with neighbors, chopping onions for soup,  watching Finn chase squirrels in the park.   Obviously,  commas are no help here, because they only cheapen those experiences, stacking them side by side like firewood waiting to be consumed.   

And I have yet to figure out what kind of punctuation to use when considering my children.

Exclamation points popped up just before dinner when Allison shared her Calc grade with me. And rightly so! But, despite all their showy enthusiasm, exclamation points always fall short in explaining the deep, thrumming love I feel for Allison.  I simply don't know how to properly punctuate that particular aquifer of feelings.  Instead,  last night, I just found myself staring at her, with a dumb smile on my face.  Imperfect, but a solution, nonetheless.

I suspect it will be an amped-up cousin of that smile that shows up tomorrow night, when Eric Carlson Holt moves his tired body through airport security.  That smile, too, will fall far short of my requirements, only hinting at the deeper rivers running under my surface.  And I'm sure that time will do that funny thing it sometimes does, bending itself just so, lassoing the earth's rotation just long enough so that the moment will stretch itself out a bit more, making room for everything. Absolutely everything.

And I will gasp, having seen all four dimensions laid out before me, the secrets of the universe momentarily uncovered in the lanky body of a 22-year-old man who has come home again.

How on earth does a person punctuate something like that?