We have a new calendar. It was Fred's self-appointed project the other day to begin filling it in - taking the empty year, the one that belongs to everyone, and giving it a distinct Russon-Jorgensen shape with birthdays, dinners with friends, impending interstate and overseas visitors and upcoming holidays. All these promises, and yet those days too will tumble by, fall into the past and earn their etched in 'x' drawn in turn by Una and Fred at days end*.
This morning: 'It's a new moon!' Fred called, as though it was an event on our social calendar. The phrase rang in my ears, suddenly absurd, and became the title of today's month of poetry attempt (rather hurried, which is fitting, because we had a busy day of rushing around achieving nothing).
Time rushes past. Avery is seven weeks old. All of us are longing for him to stretch out and grow, to laugh, to play. And yet today, as the girls observed that Avery's carseat needed adjusting, Una said sternly: 'No more growing Avery.' It's a delicious state though melancholy, living mindfully of time passing, knowing how precious the days are, how temporary.
*Today Fred asks to cross out today's date at 4.30 in the afternoon. I'm not ready to call it.
A new moon
For a new year
From the same ancient source
The flare of light
The beginning of all things