Births and deaths create eddies in time.
My oldest child was born in the middle of a Wisconsin winter and I remember sitting there with a newborn for the first time, staring vaguely out the window at the cold January streets and wondering how all of the people passing by could do that so nonchalantly, as if the world hadn’t just changed, as if everything was just as it had been before.
Of course for them it hadn’t changed, not really.
But my world had, and for a brief moment time seemed to roll back on itself, moving forward only in a very small radius of space, until eventually the rest of the world caught up with a roar and we were suddenly all in the same moment.
This is why new parents look so vague all the time.
My dad passed away on a clear day in late winter in Pennsylvania a few years ago, and as we filed out of the hospital and back toward home the same sort of disjuncture was there, an eddy in time where things in my corner of the observable universe did not move at the same pace or in the same direction as they did everywhere else.
It is a strange feeling to be caught in these eddies, in a place where the world had changed for you but not for others, not yet.
My mom passed away on Saturday morning, and here I am back in another eddy.
If you have a moment, spare a thought for someone who will be dearly missed by those who loved her.