The Void of Time

We mark the passing of our lives through the void of time in so many different ways, the most common being counting the years.  So, simply put, I have been married for fifty-six years as another Thanksgiving draws nigh.

Simply put, indeed.  But not so simply lived, as more complex ways of counting might illustrate.  For example, my wife and I have celebrated the birth of two wonderful daughters, their marriages to two admirable young men, and the arrival of five marvelous grandchildren.  The prospect of counting more opportunities to witness their future accomplishments is immensely cheering.

Indeed, there are countless ways of counting the passage of time.  For example, we watched as our extended families grew along with ours—nieces and nephews, cousins, and their children—as well as those of our in-laws.  We celebrated with friends as their families blossomed and expanded.  And we still count on experiencing many more occasions with them, where we may share their happiness.

We fondly remember countless significant moments from our chosen profession, teaching—careers we pursued with the notion that we were contributing to the greater good—enriching our own lives, to boot, through our interactions with young people.  And we still hear from a few of them periodically, middle-aged adults now, and that’s another way of counting the time, for sure.

We’ve lived happily in eleven different homes during our marriage, two of which we still enjoy.  We’ve driven twenty-two different cars, one of which we still have.

On the less-cheerful side, we experienced moments of crisis—a head-on collision that almost took us; an assault with murderous intent that changed our lives irrevocably; serious illnesses that laid us low on four different occasions.  These, too, must count as ways of marking the passing parade that denotes our lives.  But we did come through them all.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I view my wife and me as bemused bystanders—sometimes pleased or disappointed, excited or quiescent, optimistic or skeptical—part of, but also apart from, that passing parade. 

Age, I’m finding, requires a degree of withdrawal from our former, youthful, full-out involvement in a world that insists on marching onward.  Yet we never tire of witnessing the tumult and the shouting.

Some years ago, Rimfrost, a Swedish hard-rock group issued a nihilistic song, Void of Time, that is hard for these old ears to listen to, and whose lyrics depict a pale rider on a pale horse seeking the end of everything we cherish.

I much prefer Paul Simon, who wrote something much more applicable to us in one of his wonderful songs, affirming that, although we’re still crazy after all these years, we keep on counting ‘em, even as we trek more slowly now through the void of time!

Happy Thanksgiving!

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2023}