I’m trying to be bored. It’s more difficult than I thought it would be —to sit down and not have anything to do.

Probably a good idea to read. To put things away for a while and just be.
That’s what my therapist said, at least.
That maybe the way out is to stay feeling frustrated about not having an out at all.

I mentioned I was scared of being stuck.
Or more accurately, scared of the uncertainty of not knowing how to move forward — and not knowing whether I’d move at all.

The task is to sit, it seems.
To sit in time and let that carry me.

What’s interesting is that my urgency feels like it gets me somewhere, and I can’t decide whether that somewhere is frustration or progress.

I’ve been thinking about time a lot.
How grateful I am for it—
in many more ways than I am grateful to Ben and Jerry for my favourite ice cream.

I am grateful for how unapologetic it is.
How it doesn’t wait for me, or for anyone.
How it expends freedom — and how quickly that freedom is refunded.

The way it forces us forward.
How it holds both precise certainty and multiple potentials.

I think about time as a close friend that I hate every so often — just to make our relationship stronger.
It doesn’t ask much from me, at least no more than what is asked from my own self.

I called Gareth recently.
In the same spot I FaceTimed him last — nearly a year ago now.

I waited for “Connecting…” to appear. I smiled when it did.
His frame faded into screen. He was having dinner. Some sort of bowl — some sort of healthy.

We talked about our relationships. Colleagues. Friends. Lovers.
We talked about his family. And his grandma — how her illness had been getting worse.

He posed a question to me. Actually, I guess it was more of a thought, but I’ll call it a question:

“I’ve always taken for granted that I’d be able to sit on my deathbed and, when the time comes, say goodbye to my memories with grace. What happens to those — or maybe even me — when I can’t (say goodbye), because of something neurodegenerative?”

I told him I had two things to say.
First, I asked him how he’s doing, how he’s feeling.

Then I said I don’t know how to respond yet, so I’d write about what I think and send it to him.
This is that response.

I thought about how available time is.
And I tried to imagine what it feels like to hold time — physically.

I pictured someone whose memory is fractured.
How they’d pick a road to go down — maybe one they’ve travelled before — and experience it again for the first time.

Each step overriding the past.
Each step possibly recalling something.

The feeling of the ground against the sole of their foot.
The gravel crunching under their shoes.

How conscious each step is — as if the toes themselves are doing the thinking.

Their journey through the park they always go to, but the smell is brand new.

How they somehow end up in a grocery store.
Picking up a can of tuna chunks — not because they want it, or even need it, but because they recognise it.

Because they’ve picked it up before.

Memory, textured in jars and across packaging.
Running their fingers over the letters — comfort in knowing they still know it.

I talked to Dorian about this and he riffed with me —
how endearing it would be when this character gets home and lays random objects on their bed:

A spatula. Wool socks.
A pack of tennis balls. An electric toothbrush.
Tums.
Tweezers. Fairy lights.
And of course, the can of tuna chunks.

How it represents the fractured nature of their past.
How they’d have time physically laid out on their bed in a way I can only imagine.

I think of Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Wonderful Life and the idea of taking a single memory into the afterlife.

I ask myself what mine would be.
I ask myself if I am sloppy with my present.

Time — my time — slicing through the fabric of desires and pains.

And I am reminded that when the birds fly above me on my rooftop in the morning, they will not fly the same way again.

That I won’t always get to look out of my window onto Nostrand Ave —
staring at the Green Chilli Indian restaurant and their silly “Open” sign,
wondering how they’re still open when I never see anyone walk in.

And that one day, they will not be there anymore.

And I am reminded that the edges of this world are growing sharper.
I can feel myself getting angrier, more anxious.
My memories dull together as a result.

And so I am thankful to time for letting me sit here once again.

While I am still familiar with the sounds of Nostrand Ave.
While I can pick items from grocery shelves from pure will.

For time asking me to speed up and slow down.
And for sharing itself—

with Dorian,
with Gareth,
with his grandma,
and with me.