The Hoard

The sun reflects back onto my front door as a shimmering fish-tail, a double half Moon, slender ornament to the analemma of my life; twenty-seven minutes of mid morning in late February from a window silvered with dust and years. I can see it when I close my eyes, glowing on the smudged wood, a halo, a sign from God or highlight of his absence; a sparkly, shiny gateway to a magpie’s paradise.
I hoard the image in what once seemed a vast warehouse of times and spaces, cavernous, limned with tattered cobwebs and bits of paper, horrors and wonders of my life on display; it is now a moving walkway lined with gaping rooms and shuttered doors receding into the middle distance. Far ahead the gateway beckons. The difference between me and my younger self is that I can sense the movement, feel time slipping farther behind me. It requires a conscious effort not to panic a little as each moment flitters out of reach.
Deep breath.
In, out.

Do I start setting out the little pots today, containers I have saved against this hope of Spring? No. I have no room for the tangle of young cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, eggplant and guajillo that sits prospective in my mind, mirror of the vegetable jungles of past years from starting the garden too soon.
No.
It’s too early.

I find a biga, simmering reminder of now, sitting at the very back of my refrigerator, silent yet reproachful commentary on store-bought bread. I pull out the broad wooden kneading board from its back shelf and spill out onto it rye and salt, oil and water, pulling it into and away with the biga a resentful lump in the middle. A pinch of caraway. A cup of dough goes back into the biga crock then I settle in to a rhythm: Push, fold, turn, pull. Repeat.
Time passes. I add a little water, a little flour, let the loaf rest in its wooden bowl until the leaven starts to push out into the surface.
Outside my kitchen window crocuses are pushing through the icy dirt. They are hopeful even as snow starts to fall.
I form the little slippers of dough and slide them into the oven. If the boys are home tonight they will have fresh hot ciabatta with fig jam.

Looking into those rooms of memory fading into the dark as I hurtle into the future there are moments; awkward times, arguments, breakfast conversations, walks on the beach. All with my children. The girls are out west, living their lives, pushing boundaries — we talk on the phone every week or two. The boys still live here, sort of. They have their own lives. I hold every moment close.

I sit at the table and smell the bread, watch the flowers beaten by the sleet and snow, feel myself pulled into the future, toward that waiting door, the great discontinuity. Each smile, each frown, each one of their heartbeats feels fresh. I can still smell their hair. I can still taste their tears.

Every second I've spent with my children feels like time I have stolen from the universe.