The Way of All FleshIt occurs to me that I was once aware of my mother being 27 years old.
As a 7 or 8 year-old I understood the concept that my mother had been alive for 27 whole years. An entire world history to a 7 year-old. It's an odd memory, one not of an event but of a notion, the fruition of a thought. And though I don't remember thinking of it in any more poetic terms than, "My mommy's 27," as if it needed to be recited to strangers, at the moment, it feels prophetic. I sit here now, age 27 myself, with time barreling through me like tiny cannonballs, destroying me one minute-sized piece at a time.
But once, I was 7.
She was 27.
I'm nearly moving past her, so that even my memory is out of time and... younger than I am.
