It has been on my mind now for 433 days.

Just shy of 62 weeks.

Some 15 and a half months.

Ever since I wrote that little story of counting time.

It is woven throughout my thoughts, emotions, fears, joys—this element of life that holds life itself.

Time.

Its passing. Its art. Its lack of mercy or compassion. It just keeps going, like it doesn’t care.

And my resolve has been growing, to capture it to stop it to use it to the fullest—but mostly to appreciate it. To work alongside of it, in tandem with it, in respect of it.

Ever since I wrote that story of those two little jars and the time they represent—it has been growing within me, transforming my understanding and concept of time.

It is not, after all, a traitor or an enemy, stealing away my moments with my boys. It is those moments. It is the gift.

And no it has no thought of me as it ticks away at the seconds and minutes and hours and days and childhoods—but every single tick is itself a gift, not a taunt.

I can hold on. I can make it matter. I can sit and enjoy and stop and linger and be grateful for the passing of time. I need no longer fear it. Every time I drop a penny from one jar to the next, signifying one more week gone, it is actually one more week to give thanks for. So I don’t lament this practice of counting time—instead I whisper a prayer of thanks.

{this has been a five-minute-friday post}

Prompt: Time

A collaboration of writers. A collage of pieces focused on one weekly prompt. A five-minute challenge to write raw and exposed. Completely unedited. Magnificently honest.