Every moment with your child is precious, no matter how long they live, no matter the number of their days. 
This bird looks at me with obsidian eyes. They glimmer, small black lights in the gloom. I do not blink. 
My arms sometimes move on their own in big flapping motions, as if I might take off, and my hands spin like a hummingbird's wings. 
The strength of the trees around me became a tide carrying me ceaselessly forward. 
Every night, I slip into the empty winter land of memory. 
Any story is an ocean whose tide begins in a place I can't know, and my life is but a moment in that flood, my part in it only a mote in the flow. 
When I fall from the tree, every future climbing move explodes apart in my mind, a deck of cards thrown in the air. 
Already, the Elms and the Chestnuts are gone, and the Hemlocks and the Flowering Dogwoods. And I didn't get a chance to climb them yet. 
Time can be difficult for me. It is a continuous thing, and it has no boundaries. Sometimes it moves very fast and sometimes very slow. 
Time moves on, and with it all flesh. 