Half a year has gone by since David and Evelyn drowned. Spring gave way to summer and now autumn is upon me. I am surprised by the passing of the seasons this way. It all seemed to happen so quickly, without me noticing, even while I have tried to be aware of the fleeting nature of time.
I have made a concerted effort to pay attention to the moments as though they were gifted to me--because they have been. I made a point to watch the shooting stars from the Perseids and the Orionids. I was awestruck by the magic of the summer's super moon. Yet, I'm stunned to realize that the moon has waxed and waned six times since that night in May.
Knowing that tomorrow is not promised to me, I have mindfully tried to capture joyful moments in each day. I've worked at connecting with each of the people I love as frequently as I can, mostly in small ways--a phone call, an email, a goofy card dropped in the mail. I've taken steps to mend some broken relationships. I've taken more photos than ever. I've said, "Yes" to more invitations. I've visited more places and tried more things on the "one of these days I'm going to..." list.
In fact, I made special To Do lists--the Summer of Awesomeness and the Fall of Fabulosity--and have made some truly great memories with the people I love. There was wonderful music and family gatherings and babies and beach days and a wedding and birthdays on my calendar.
And still, I have lost entire weeks to cleaning laundry, dishes, and bathrooms; fussing over half-pints of milk at work; sitting in doctor's waiting rooms; watching mindless television; arguing over meaningless bits of protocol in board meetings. I'm still suprised to discover that one hundred and eighty-two days have passed. Six months is gone.
Half a year.