‘What is time itself, dear friend?
What is the sea where hours float? Am I daft, or is it true there’s no such thing as hours past and other hours still to pass, but all of them instead are all at once and never gone? Is there no time lost that ever was? Is there no time yet to come that’s not here now?’
Frederick Buechner
Some would call it sentimentalizing I would myself
if asked
others call it something more practical; a time keeping, a history tending, an ancestral diagramming.
As if the past wanted to be put down on paper branching out from grandmother’s tar-stained fingertips and raspy smoke voice like a tendril of English Ivy overtaking the stonework of that mansion on the corner, by
the butchers shop.
Since when have butchers become the next new thing, again?