The present is something ephemeral, a lime popsicle on a July afternoon. It melts quickly and is gone, leaving behind sticky fingers and a green tongue. There is evidence of the present left behind, an afterimage on a dark television screen, as Dillard says. It's here, moves forward, and leaves like a car on a highway.
I just got back from my daughter's final school concert of the year. It was, as most school concerts are, a little uneven. Some really amazing performances mixed with the elementary school chorus singing "This Little Light of Mine." Everything was wildly entertaining.
As I sat in the gym, watching and listening, I found myself becoming quite emotional. There were some girls who were seniors singing their last solos. Some musicians who were seniors playing their last Chopin etude. I watched my daughter play her flute, sing with the chorus, and I couldn't help but think of how close my daughter is to graduation herself. In three years, she will be an invisible electron. Fleet, fleeing, gone, as Dillard describes the present.
It made me appreciate the concert a little more. Pay closer attention to each ensemble and drum solo. I didn't want to forget anything. Of course, when my wife and I met up with our daughter after the concert, she was in complete teenager mode. A little sulky, walking fast so her friends wouldn't see her walking with us. And the moment was over.
Saint Marty used to be cool.
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