‘I sick,’ I used to say to my mother, as a child. ‘I sick,’ I said to my mother, the other day, on Skype. Some things don’t change.
Except that they do, and what the child says innocently is said knowingly by the adult. And, at my time of life, with irony and amusement, and a sly tip of the hat at Old Father Time who watches, impassive, from a table in the corner.
When you are a child there is only the present. As an adult, bringing up children, building a career, you live in the future. The future is less interesting now, and the present, now a river, carries as it winds its slow way to the ocean the sediment, vegetation, of every minute of the past.