a year is a long time.
about fifty weeks.
three hundred sixty-five days (three hundred sixty-six if it’s a leap year).
five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.
far too many seconds.
a year is a long time.
school days are long and wearisome.
students dragging themselves to reach may.
when summer finally comes around, the day seems shorter even though the sun is out longer.
quickly the days blow away.
we scramble for more time away from equations and falling leaves, yet there is an excitement for what is to come in the fall.
a year is a long time until it isn’t.
bad news hits. a shadow is cast over the last few bright days of summer.
time is ticking away. the diagnosis is a death sentence.
immediately treatment starts.
a year is a short time.
we visit every day. we come with stories about the school day.
you smile but the wear and tear is shown on your face.
meanwhile, the hope on our faces falls ever so slowly.
treatment fails. our days together are limited.
time is an impeding countdown, just waiting for the clock to reach zero.
