And I celebrate my own life, remember many Octobers melting into misty Novembers. Dark afternoons, fireworks illuminating inky skies, fires roaring in hearths and gardens. Remember the excitement of sparklers shared with friends, my father lighting blue touch papers and retreating. Uneasy now in this time of change, and uncertain who it is about to turn 45. But steadied by the golden thread of all my Autumns.
I realized that the past is not linear, not forever frozen and unchangeable. Rather than being a line stretching back horizontally, personal time is a column, layering vertically, down below the present. It’s like a shifting column of different coloured fluids. One floating on top of the other. And when you change one layer at the bottom all the layers shift and change colour above.