You know: Thanksgiving and all that.
It's not that I don't like Thanksgiving: I do, I like it a lot. It's just that it's another one of those things that loses a little luster as you grow up and get wise and start to realize that life is short and aging is awful and losing people you love can be unbearable sometimes. It's a holiday we hype beyond recognition, beyond what sensible people can tolerate: where did all this plenty come from; where does it go? And why does it all go so fast?
It's just that afterwards, when people are racing out to shop or putting up their Christmas decorations, I get this lull, this wash of melancholy.
The older you get the faster it goes -- somehow it seems that way to me. Everything's on accelerate, all the plans made, all the Saturdays booked before the calendar page is turned over. Thanksgiving dinner's barely digested before it's time to start shopping for Christmas.
I'm not complaining about Black Friday specifically -- although I think it's awful -- I'm concerned about the way time whips by me like a wind and blows things out of my hands, no matter how tightly I hold them. The candles burn and the dinner's done and the next day comes and the next thing. Christmas. New Year's. Valentine's Day. Everything so fast.
I remember when I was a kid it took forever for time to go by: all those boxes on the Advent calendar, all those chilly days before spring. Now things speed up, they whip by, I sit in the quiet after and think, "Well that's over."
And part of me thinks it's that time -- the quiet time in between the hype and the hoopla, with dishes drying and the orange ornaments and turkey platters stacked for storage, the downtime, when it's quiet and still -- that might be the very best time of all.