Time does not exist—except in these words read
one after the other: the pianist arriving,
sitting down to play, and playing.
Time does not…what was I saying?
The father announcing, “I’ll take your picture,”
“We’re late,” “Let me take your picture,”
the taking of the picture, the picture.
Hell, to exist, needs time, but I can’t imagine anything
needing time which is not already inside time.
It takes time for hunger to arrive, or the pain from the fire;
time does not exist by itself: “Emily floats on a river
forever and ever”; without the river there is no time
and time will always be found in, not apart from, the river;
but no river can go on forever; you won’t be bored
or tortured in the afterlife, don’t worry;
the discrete moments of time keep getting overlooked:
so many of life’s moments are missed!
No, I experienced them as moments! I did!
The reason I think I missed them
is that the most beautiful moments have no memory.
Worry for my children kept me from appreciating them to the full.
Worry combines with time to take everything away.
When I saw a photo of my daughter as a young girl,
a photo told me the truth—I hadn’t seen
exactly, that she was the loveliest child that ever was;
this momentary truth, like all the others, has flown,
a forgotten poem, a voice, the faintest star,
a whole life missed, when, in a cloud of worry, I made my way through the sunshine, alone.