Two experiences render time into slow, near-solid molasses: car wrecks, and moments of the deepest of happinesses.

The instant my friend Maura was broad-sided before my eyes compares uneasily to moments of the deepest love-making. Both could not be more honest, and both always shadowed by a friend: Time is watching; watching its own footsteps, gazing cautiously through the mirror to see if it, itself, is still breathing.

But then, this: meandering Southern contentment, paying a visit, as if even thinking of the feeling were a streaming August night in Georgia and happiness a beautiful neighbor with her tall, easy glasses of the truest of lemonade.

This we have tasted, the slow, thick joy that stays on our lips, scented of sweet amber; the staying and staying of time; our little tidepool.

Tonight time came for me, a heavy, tumbling river, past the rising moon, over logs waiting for moss. The quiet of love filled it up, swimming in silver over the banks littered with my stress and everyone else’s whose cares might be breathing and hoping on the shores of my heart.

The shining rocks were cheered up by someone I love. With a tender, old love, in one evening or a lifetime, we can resuscitate and rest, catching up with our own soul while love rushes in.

There is nothing to be done that cannot be undone by love.

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