An Invisible

Isn’t it amazing how time, that invisible leprechaun of life, can cause dramatic changes in our viewpoints.

I still remember two quite young people standing in a small chapel on West 60th Street looking quickly at each other as they promised to love “Until death do us part.”

I know that if the words had changed to “for 57 years,” probably the two of us would have laughed and said, “Oh, we really don’t need that much time.”

And of course, we both learned to our sorrow, it truly wasn’t enough. But then do we ever have “enough” time.

I often wish I could skip back more decades than I admit and baked just a few more cookies, read aloud a few more fairy tales and poems, not worried so much about clothes on the floor or hidden under the bed, or even which of the Fabulous Four ate all their dinner.

I wish I had laughed more, worried less and possibly been less sensitive. But then the invisible leprechaun warns me, “You didn’t know.”

My Ipad rang recently, three times in succession. I was late; rushing off to an appointment. It was my own fault, I had stayed up far too late immersed in one of my favorite film noir foreign mysteries. I turned off the morning alarm for just another fifteen minutes, and consequently, the following day, I felt stressed.

I let the IPad ring, as I finished the dregs of my coffee, and quickly decided, “I’ll call back when I get home.”

And I did, but there was no answer.

I had arrived in time for my appointment. There really was no reason for my concern, except my own foolish sense of urgency. A quality that has been my shadow most of my life.

Later that day I returned the FaceTime call several times in the afternoon; then again and again during the following weeks that passed.

I learned why there never can or will be a return call, and once again I learned to respect the Leprechaun’s lesson. “There is really never ‘enough’ time.”