We are made of time.
We are its feet and its voice.
The feet of time walk in our shoes.
Sooner or later, we all know, the winds of time will erase the tracks.
Passage of nothing, steps of no one? The voices of time tell of the voyage.
~Eduardo GaleanoNext month marks the 45th year since I last walked the breezeways, sat in one of the many alcoves, or listened to the water splashing in the fountain of the upper courtyard beneath the belless bell tower of my old high school. As high schools go, it was one of the grandest. And God, how I hated my four years there.
This is a picture inside of those hallowed breezeways exactly as they appeared 45 years ago. But the picture was taken just Sunday before last. Mother's Day Sunday. And from the photo I can attest the old high school's still one of the grandest.
This photo was sent to me by an old classmate who took a side trip, and pictures, on his way to celebrate Mother's Day with his mom who now lives in another, larger, city nearby.
I was yanked from a much larger school in the Los Angeles basin to attend this small town high school. And I felt so removed from it all, I detested leaving the friends from my academic early years. As a result, I never felt assimilated into this scene. I regret that now. It was four long years of my life that could have been much shorter and happier if I had.