A hackneyed truism about growing older is that the older we get the faster time flies. It is so real that we want to stand in the middle of a busy street with our arms outstretched screaming at the world to slow the speeding traffic, to slow every second to a more leisurely rate of spent energy; to salvage more time, more moments, more savings from our certain exhaustible supply preordained to us by the timekeeper of our worldly passage. A grandmother I know personally having fun with her grandsons knows these truths and also that they will soon morph into grown men and will no longer travel with her on the speeding merry-go-round in the race with time, but will travel into a future that belongs to the young and she cannot travel with them.

A letter to the editor from the grandmother depicted in the little piece above takes exception to the moroseness of it. She says we were having a great time and that's all there is to it. She's right of course, but perhaps it's just my sense of melancholia that gets riled up and I can't help myself and I take keyboard in hand and out comes what some people depict as depressing prose. Yeah maybe so, next time I will try more upbeat stuff.