from H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald


Time passed. The wavelength of the light around me shortened. The day built itself. P 9

These days are full to overflowing. There are a multitude of picnics, rehearsals, ceremonies. It feels neverending.

These days I wake up before the sun does. My eyes fly open and I panic, wondering what I’ve forgotten.

These days are structured, we move from one event to the next, wanting to enjoy the time we have together. Knowing this may be the last time we see one another.

These days I contemplate the future and how our lives will be different in just a few short months.

These days I relish the quiet moments, even if they are sparse.

These days the pile of books to read next to my bed is growing exponentially. They wave to me each night and tell me not to forget them.

These days are not how I imagined they would be, though I don’t know if I could even put my expectations into words.

These days feel heavy and weighted with ceremony and tradition, I’d rather their gravitational pull wasn’t so strong.

These days bring too many deadlines. All of the regular end of year activities are still needing my attention.

These days people are constantly asking how I am, and what I will be doing with all of my free time.

These days I feel nostalgic for what we once had, but the what will be is beckoning.

These days are challenging, but also exciting in a leap from the plane and pull your parachute kind of way.

These days I tell my novel that I am coming. I whisper to my rough draft: soon, soon, soon.

These days I want to bundle my son and hug him every chance I get. I am thankful when he grabs my hand as we are walking. Still.

These days, oh these days. I know they’ll never come round this way again.

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