“I wish,” said Laurie, 6, “that the sunlight would freeze on the sidewalk.”
I could wish for a lot of things, but frozen sunlight would not be one of them.
“But why? Why do you wish that?” I asked her.
Her face beamed. “Then, I could scoop it up, take it under my covers and read in the dark!”
When sunlight melts it doesn’t leave sopping sheets, just a slight glow that fades to nothing by morning.
I’d rather find time frozen on the sidewalk. I’d scoop that up and keep it under my covers. Or maybe in the freezer so it could last longer.
If I could scoop up my own frozen stash of time, I could get everything done. It wouldn’t matter if I wasted an hour looking up a minor medical malady on the Internet. Or if half the day vanished while all I’d accomplished was undoing everything I’d done yesterday.
I could just open the freezer, take the frozen scoop of time from a Zip-lock bag and let it thaw. When the freezer ran out of time, I’d just go to the sidewalk and scoop more.
If I could freeze time, I’d finish half-started projects on hold for years.
Twelve years ago I bought fabric to make curtains for the boys’ room. The fabric is largely untouched. I only now realize that teen boys would not appreciate the cutesy space alien material I bought when they were toddlers.
This is the time of year I especially wish I could freeze time.
It hurts to visit toy aisles. All the toys I still like, my kids have outgrown. No more are they happy playing with Legos, or even remote-controlled cars.
Every year the toys get cooler, and every year my kids get older. Here’s a neat spy kit: binoculars, voice recorder, camera. I would have rejoiced to find this under the tree. But my kids would roll their eyes.
Even my youngest child is outgrowing the cute toys.
Freeze! Freeze now!
Some strange family appeared in a Christmas card photo. It was supposed to be my brother-in-law’s family. But the blonde cherubs were missing. Older, brown-haired kids replaced them. One niece looked like a stranger, just popping in from across the street to confuse us. The baby was gone. And who was this white-haired guy? If it weren’t for my sister-in-law, always disgustingly svelte, young and blonde, I’d swear we were slipped someone else’s family photo by mistake.
Our friends always send a Christmas photo of their boy. This year the boy was a man. I pulled out all the earlier Christmas photos. There he was: blond, rosy-cheeked angel. There he was again, still rosy-cheeked but now with glasses. Then, his face slimmed, but the twinkle remained in his eyes. Bigger, older. Now with contacts, the glasses gone. Then, one year, his hair grew long and dark, and the twinkle left his eyes. Too late, too late to freeze time now!
But the twinkle returned the next year, and now he is a big, strong, handsome young man, full of life. I still miss the rosy-cheeked 1st-grader, though.
This week, my own little boy sat on the floor pulling on his socks when I noticed a mustache. WHAT HAPPENED? How did that get there? The last time this happened to a son, he was off to college five minutes later. He’s supposed to be playing with Legos. Quick! The bag of frozen time! Before he heads out the door!
Christmas, at least, slows time down.
You take pictures at Christmas, each one a bookmark, a resting place, an anchor. You can’t remember the other 364 days of 1989, but you remember what you looked like that Christmas, because you are right there in the photo, clearing a path for the mail carrier, wearing your plaid jacket, waving, smiling.
But more than that, Christmas sits, fixed, like the North Star. Whatever changes occur over the year, Christmas is constant.
The intersection of human and divine stands firm on the time line of history, dividing AD and BC, ice and fire, life and death, now and forever. Christmas may not freeze time, but it certainly steadies it.
Donna Marmorstein Dec. 2006 All Rights Reserved
I could wish for a lot of things, but frozen sunlight would not be one of them.
“But why? Why do you wish that?” I asked her.
Her face beamed. “Then, I could scoop it up, take it under my covers and read in the dark!”
When sunlight melts it doesn’t leave sopping sheets, just a slight glow that fades to nothing by morning.
I’d rather find time frozen on the sidewalk. I’d scoop that up and keep it under my covers. Or maybe in the freezer so it could last longer.
If I could scoop up my own frozen stash of time, I could get everything done. It wouldn’t matter if I wasted an hour looking up a minor medical malady on the Internet. Or if half the day vanished while all I’d accomplished was undoing everything I’d done yesterday.
I could just open the freezer, take the frozen scoop of time from a Zip-lock bag and let it thaw. When the freezer ran out of time, I’d just go to the sidewalk and scoop more.
If I could freeze time, I’d finish half-started projects on hold for years.
Twelve years ago I bought fabric to make curtains for the boys’ room. The fabric is largely untouched. I only now realize that teen boys would not appreciate the cutesy space alien material I bought when they were toddlers.
This is the time of year I especially wish I could freeze time.
It hurts to visit toy aisles. All the toys I still like, my kids have outgrown. No more are they happy playing with Legos, or even remote-controlled cars.
Every year the toys get cooler, and every year my kids get older. Here’s a neat spy kit: binoculars, voice recorder, camera. I would have rejoiced to find this under the tree. But my kids would roll their eyes.
Even my youngest child is outgrowing the cute toys.
Freeze! Freeze now!
Some strange family appeared in a Christmas card photo. It was supposed to be my brother-in-law’s family. But the blonde cherubs were missing. Older, brown-haired kids replaced them. One niece looked like a stranger, just popping in from across the street to confuse us. The baby was gone. And who was this white-haired guy? If it weren’t for my sister-in-law, always disgustingly svelte, young and blonde, I’d swear we were slipped someone else’s family photo by mistake.
Our friends always send a Christmas photo of their boy. This year the boy was a man. I pulled out all the earlier Christmas photos. There he was: blond, rosy-cheeked angel. There he was again, still rosy-cheeked but now with glasses. Then, his face slimmed, but the twinkle remained in his eyes. Bigger, older. Now with contacts, the glasses gone. Then, one year, his hair grew long and dark, and the twinkle left his eyes. Too late, too late to freeze time now!
But the twinkle returned the next year, and now he is a big, strong, handsome young man, full of life. I still miss the rosy-cheeked 1st-grader, though.
This week, my own little boy sat on the floor pulling on his socks when I noticed a mustache. WHAT HAPPENED? How did that get there? The last time this happened to a son, he was off to college five minutes later. He’s supposed to be playing with Legos. Quick! The bag of frozen time! Before he heads out the door!
Christmas, at least, slows time down.
You take pictures at Christmas, each one a bookmark, a resting place, an anchor. You can’t remember the other 364 days of 1989, but you remember what you looked like that Christmas, because you are right there in the photo, clearing a path for the mail carrier, wearing your plaid jacket, waving, smiling.
But more than that, Christmas sits, fixed, like the North Star. Whatever changes occur over the year, Christmas is constant.
The intersection of human and divine stands firm on the time line of history, dividing AD and BC, ice and fire, life and death, now and forever. Christmas may not freeze time, but it certainly steadies it.
Donna Marmorstein Dec. 2006 All Rights Reserved
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