Time Marches On

What happened to my Miami Dolphins jacket?
Or my favorite pair of blue Keds?
When did I go from being a player, to a coach?

When did I quit riding the school bus,
or receive notes that read,
"If you like me, check this box"?

When did getting pizza stop being a big deal?
When did I quit waking up early on Saturday
to watch cartoons?
Whatever happened to my Rax crew-member
name tag?

Where is my Big Wheel?
Where is my "Thriller" cassette?
Where is Keven Beer living now?

Why did I stop worrying about what college I was going to attend?
Why did I give up trying to become a pilot?
Why do I no longer play the trombone?

The days of looking good in a pair of Calvin Klines
and a shirt with an alligator on it are over.
The days of going to Kewpee to shoot the bull with
the guys after YF are over.
The days of playing kickball on the old railroad tracks
until Mom called me home for dinner are over.

Time marches on.

My mind wanders....

to swimming and movies at Eric's condo
to the night our tuba player dotted the "M" in "Script Lima"
to late nights driving around in a Buick
to a rainy night on Western Campus
to sheet pizzas at Boop's house
to bringing home pizza bread on my 10-speed
to eating lunch with the rest of 9-16
to playing rundown at Little Watt Powell Park
to the smell of popcorn at the drive-in
to climbing on the rocks after church
to games of "Shark" at Elkland Pool
to picking black cherries while my great-grandfather watched

to the little moments
that didn't seem to matter much
like resting my head on my father's chest
or
reading to my brother "The Pokey Little Puppy"
or
getting pummeled by Unc in a pillow fight
or
Mr. Kelly's homemade peach ice cream
or
getting picked first

moments that have made a life rich
moments that harder to remember
moments that will never be reclaimed

Time marches on.

I wonder how much time I have left.
Will I see my youngest child graduate from college?
Will I become the old guy at the district pastor's meeting?
Will I tell stories that sound too crazy to my grandchildren?

"Back in my day, all cars ran on gasoline, and when I was young
I paid 75 cents for a gallon of gas"

"Grampa, you're crazy... cars don't run on gas."

Will I become the old man everyone whispers about at Christmas?

"He's not looking so good. He hasn't said one word all evening.
He barely touched his dinner. He'll want to get back to the nursing home soon."

Will I, in so much pain, beaten down by old age, one day see death
not as the enemy but as a friend?

I have no idea.

But I'll find out.

Time marches on.