the Golden

An hour has sixty minutes, one after another, like cars on a train and the tracks go this way until they disappear around a bend or over the horizon. And they come from that way, and my mind can’t touch the beginning of them. An hour has sixty minutes. And the hour that follows, sixty, and the hour that follows, and the hour that follows.

But what of the moments? I once spent hour after hour with you. Every moment, golden. Sixty of them at a time… golden and golden and golden. And I thought at the time they would stretch out as far as my mind could reach in both directions. Those beautiful golden moments.

And I have spent many moments talking to you in your golden way. And I didn’t know that I couldn’t stay in that place where time was more than just passing shadows and the metronome regularity of minute after minute after minute. It was more than just the passing of a grey and silent time. Those were the golden, the moments and the words.

But now, the hours of my life have become just that imperceptible ticking off of minute after minute after grey and silent minute. The muted clacking of the never ending rotation of time, cars on the track, one after the next after the next after the next.

Until, suddenly, in one of those moments there you are again. Here, and golden. A shining singular exception. And I just have to smile and say hello there, sweet man. Here you are again. For the moment.