I’m overwhelmed. By how long life is. By how short it is. I feel both ancient and brand new.
I walked past a softball field today with my toddler. He was entranced by all the movement. The smell of late spring – of recent rain and grass and wet cleats – reminded me of soccer games from my childhood. And I wondered: will my kid play soccer? Will I stand at the sidelines of a field, under an umbrella, hot coffee in hand, on Saturday mornings watching my darling boy play?
Memories from childhood are now inextricably connected with my own kid. I will repeat many things I already experienced once, but this time from the perspective of a parent. In that moment of connection, where memory collides with imagined futures and possibilities, I feel tired, old. I’ve already lived so much. I’ve lived over 30 years, a length that once used to comprise our species’ life expectancy.
And I feel so young. Too young to have a toddler. I haven’t lived enough yet. There is still so much to see and taste and do.
Old. Young. I am neither. I am both.