impermanence

Standing in line in the cool, dim drugstore amidst a hot thunderstorm booming outside, I had a revelation of sorts.

Summer was in the air, with mamas in short shorts and tiny tank tops, kids reluctantly scrabbling along behind, hot and pink and sticky. The cold waiting beyond the sliding automatic doors was a refuge, a haven, a promised land amidst the heavy, wavering heat rising from the pavement. I pushed my way through the crowds to wait in line at the counter, complacently standing in place while a woman in front of me unloading an entire cart-full of goods, happy to be still in the cold air.

It was then that I heard it. The instant photo machine beside me, spouting out advertisement after advertisement, catching my attention with a Christmas greeting.

Yeah, a Christmas greeting. Just in case you were interested in making your photo cards early. Seven months early.

So there I stood, listening to It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas loop over and over again as I waited in line in the air conditioned drugstore on a stifling June day with the heavy clouds looming outside, while mamas in short shorts and tiny tank tops drag their hot, pink, sticky kids reluctantly behind, when I realized:

even though it was Wednesday afternoon, a typical day in June, and I couldn't even see to the next day never mind the next week, terrified at the thought of next month or the month after or my next breath, there was a comfort in knowing that December would come and I'd be listening to Christmas music again. June would finish whether I achieved goals or not, and July would follow, and August and September and October and November, too. Christmas would roll around and I'd be sitting someplace warm and cozy away from the ice and snow and be dreaming of summer, probably.

I get so mired down in details and small things and lose my head in the sand instead of the clouds. But at least Christmas music will come again.