Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 158

I lose the thread of my days when I don’t get this done in the morning. Time is really slipping through my fingers right now. It’s not that there are so many things undone as there are things I want to do, and the hours turn into seconds, not minutes. I had an interesting conversation with my acupuncturist about this this afternoon, that we only notice time passing too quickly if we think about time. That if we just rode with it, it wouldn’t seem to pass so quickly. She suggested a book, which I will endeavour to find.

Mr Impractical struck again today. I ordered a new lock for the garage door, spent half an hour making sure the hole was the right size and that the barrel fitted etc etc, only to find, just when I thought I was winning, that the hole (which was already there) is too close to the edge of the door for the damn lock to fit. And then I forgot I’d promised to help M and A rescue a bird which had obviously fallen down into our chimney, to remember only when M came out of the house bearing said bird in an old sheet and setting it gently down on the lawn. A very ragged -looking pigeon that looked considerably the worse for wear. A went into the house to get some water and food for it (what food I don’t know; looked like some sort of grain to me). Just as she put the tray of water down next to the bird, it shook its head, ruffled its feathers, and flew off, leaving a trail of shit as it sailed off, obviously not as badly affected by its time in the chimney. Except wounded pride.

Still on my other astral plane after acupuncture, the needle points still sensitive and hot on my skin, I walked down a street and started catching up a father and his tiny daughter walking very slowly. She must have been about two or three, and was toddling along in that very special way in which such young people cover the ground. They were holding hands. She asked him the time, and he stopped, let go of her hand, checked the time and told her. He started walking again. She hooped after him, and I saw her tiny little hand reaching for his much larger hand, and huddling itself back into his palm. That brought tears to my eyes, that single small gesture, that gesture of absolute trust and love, and I missed the days when all ours were that small, when their hands would have fitted five times into our palms, when they still thought we were gods and perfect, and could do nothing wrong. It was a very moving moment, and I overtook them (giving them a wide berth of course) with tears still in my eyes. A few dozen feet onwards, I saw the inverse – a grown son with his elderly mother. He let go of her hand after they crossed the road, but she obviously didn’t really know where they were going, so her skinny hand defined by nothing more than tendons reached out and searched for his hand, and when she found it, she put her head on his shoulder, and they walked, slightly lopsidedly, up a gravel track towards a house by the Heath.

Life is beautiful.




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