By Louie Ferrera

How many ways are there to mark the passing of time? The slow sweep of the second hand as it makes its way around the face of a clock. The imperceptible, glacial movements of the minute and hour hands. The magical transformation of LED numbers as one bleeds into the next. The ticking of a clock. Do clocks even make a  tick tock sound anymore? I’m sure you could program your cell phone to do so.

Before the invention of clocks, the passing of time was measured in much larger increments; the sweep of the sun as it arcs across the sky from horizon to horizon, the waxing and waning of the moon, the march and retreat of the tides. Machu Picchu, Stonehenge and the pyramids at Chichen Itza in Mexico are some of the original clocks.  Built with unbelievable precision, these stone monoliths were used by ancient people to, among other things, mark the passing of the seasons.

Closer to home the arrival of migratory birds tells me that spring is here, their departure heralds the onset of fall. Buds, then leaves appear on trees. Blossoms become fruit which ripens and nourishes us. Some fruit falls to the ground where secretive critters come in the silence of night to eat their fill. I know this by the half gnawed apples and Asian pears that I discover every morning throughout the summer and fall. Flowers provide nectar for hummingbirds and bees, they eventually wither and fall to the ground once they’ve served their purpose. When flowers and fruit are no more, I know that winter is on the way.

There’s a subtle shift around mid September as summer transitions into fall. I feel that today for the first time. The quality of light is slightly different from the way it looked yesterday, the angle of the sun a bit lower. The trees look different too. The way that the light is hitting their leaves softens their infinite shades of green. The leaves on our cherry trees have begun to curve inward, a prelude to their transition from green to vivid yellow. The wind will soon lift them from their branches to create a lemony swirl of color that will blanket the ground. The millions of tiny leaves on our neighbor’s Japanese maple tree have already begun to turn. The explosion of colors on this tree becomes our own private Vermont, New England in miniature. This seasonal shift is being ushered in today by the breeze, it’s soft and warm, almost tropical in quality, a harbinger of fall.

When the rains arrive they are a blessing, wet and wonderful and oh so joyous. This is yet another marker of the passage of time and a cause for celebration in the era of climate uncertainty. I always sense a collective sigh of relief when the first rain soaks the earth and washes away months of dirt and dust from buildings and trees.

Our children are a long measure of time; a linear progression from infancy  to childhood, adolescence to young adulthood and beyond. Has our son always been taller than me? Has his voice always been this low pitched? When did that wispy mustache first appear on his upper lip? Wait! He’s going to college, working a part time job and driving a car? Hell, he can take that car apart and put it back together again. His smile, electric blue eyes and gentle, sensitive nature haven’t changed, it’s just that he’s grown more deeply into them.

Our daughter is in college too. She lives on campus three hours south of here. We recently helped her move into her dorm for sophomore year. Letting go is hard. I squeezed her python-like with a tearful goodbye hug. She’s a brilliant visual artist, dean’s list student and a track and field athlete too. Her legs and upper body are muscled and toned. Where the hell did that intricate octopus tattoo on her torso come from anyway? Her wacky sense of humor continues to delight me as it always has. Those hazel eyes and freckles still shine as brightly as ever.

I still see our kids through the unblinking eye of a new parent, not wanting to ever avert my gaze for fear of missing even the most minute aspect of their development. To be a parent is to experience long time. You think they’ll be in diapers forever until they’re not. A crawl becomes a first step, a jog around the bases, a sprint up the soccer pitch, a joyous and confident stride as they receive their high school diplomas. As a parent, the passing of time is bittersweet and an experience to be savored.

I mark the passing of time by our friends and families, by my darling wife and by myself too. There are outward appearances; the lines on faces, the growing streaks of grey, a bit more of a jowl here, a growing paunch there. There’s a mellowing of attitude too and a sense that there’s no time to waste. With age and the passing of time the love and appreciation that I have for these most precious  people in my life deepens by the minute. No one lives forever so each moment that I get to share with a loved one is a gift. Both of my parents are 94. Mom has advanced dementia and is in a memory care facility. For her, time has been put into a blender and gotten all mixed up, it’s like a jigsaw puzzle that can never quite be put back together again. Dad still lives at home but only with the help of my siblings. Mom and dad were born during the Great Depression, talk about the passing of time!

My dear Carol, love of my life and soulmate, has thus far ridden the timeship with grace and humor. Her sparkly eyes and 100 watt smile still delight me. The lines around her eyes are the sum total of all the smiles and love that we’ve shared on our journey together through this beautiful life that we’ve created.

I look in the mirror and can see quite clearly the passage of time on my own face. Sometimes I wonder just who is that old grey beard and what’s he doing looking back at me? How did I get old? Old is a relative term anyway. That saying “You’re only as old as you feel” still rings true for me. I still feel young at heart and can muster up the enthusiasm of a kid whenever I feel passionate enough about something. I guess you’d say I’m just trying to move forward and enjoy the passage of time.