Not Even his Bones

There is something about being a parent that makes you painfully aware of how fleeting it all is.  Probably having to do with the fact of having front row seats to the blink that every stage of development seems to be.  We snap pictures and jot things down and if you’re my wife and I you even break down and buy a Flip camera (we kept telling ourselves it was one more thing that we just really didn’t need), but none of that really changes anything at all.

Still it goes by way too fast.

My father-in-law was watching Yogi zoom Fro Sheep around the living room in a tiny truck this morning and he said, “Just think, there are probably only a few cells somewhere in his brain that will even still be there in a few years.  Not even his bones will be the same.”  I hadn’t made it to my second cup of coffee when he came out with that.  And good morning to you too, Grandpa!

The day has moved along, but that observation has hung around, ringing in my ears.  Yogi is napping, my wife is running in the woods somewhere and all I can think is, Not even his bones will be the same.  I haven’t decided if I find this radically liberating or soul-crushingly sad or both.  Probably both, but it’s still too early to tell.  It’s hasn’t really settled in yet, I’ve got some more marinading to do.


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