Member Poem

As the Days Pass Faster

One day,
a long time ago,
I read that because time seems to pass more quickly
as you get older,
you’ve lived more than fifty percent of your life
by the time you turn twenty-one.

Days turn into hours
turn into minutes
turn into a camera flash,
a single moment frozen in a frame
on the mantel.

Just yesterday
you were celebrating your first wedding anniversary
and now six — ten — twenty-five years
have gone by in a blink.

The kitchen décor you chose together
has gone out of style.
That trendy velvet couch
is worn threadbare in the spot you sit every day.
Your old car
might as well be a wagon.

I do not have a monopoly on sorrow.
I press the heels of my palms to my eyes
and feel thankful that I am no soldier on the Front;
the gunshots are all in my head.

No medals of bravery are handed out
for going to the bakery, darning socks,
writing a novel, putting wine in a bucket of ice to chill,
losing the kitchen scissors, pumping a gallon of gas,
or wrapping Christmas presents.

Taking inventory of my life,
I feast on the crumbs
that have fermented in my brain,
growing stronger as time passes,
more poignant, not stale:

A birthday cake
with ten candles.

New Year’s fireworks
at Lakeside Park.

Knees skinned
on the gravel driveway.

A first kiss
after midnight.

Elastic bands
tied in a chain.

I am not saintly.
From my roost above it all,
the soulful harmony of mistakes
and stolen moments strike discord,
add a bitter taste to the yesterdays:

I jabber during the movie
and miss the big reveal.

The half-finished puzzle
is left on the dining table for weeks.

Ornery bickering
about the laundry.

The bang of the screen door
slamming.

A cold shoulder,
an unshed tear.

Unanswered
text messages.

Time undulates in slow waves,
but the moments themselves
are drops of water.
You try to catch them,
but they slip from your fingers.

Suddenly, every politician has the same face.
You’ve seen that actress in something before
— but what?
You IMDB the good parts,
search Facebook albums
for the dates and places you swore never to forget.

We kissed on the ramparts, once.
Where?

How could we have lived in that apartment
for two years?
I don’t remember
the carpet, the layout,
the cupboard handles.

I feel the sun on my face and worry
about wrinkles and melanoma,
but also think of it being my last chance
to feel the sun on my face,
and let it burn a while longer.

There are days I hate this world, this life.
Others, I am terrified of it being over too soon.
A single moment stolen from me:
there are really so few,
when you think about it.

How many more hugs from my mother?
How many more sunrises,
or sunsets,
will I see?

I am still young, I think.
The days still seem long,
sometimes.

The days are long
but the years speed by.
I worry about having enough time
for it all.