Life is but the moments we make in it.
At least that’s what Edna thought she remembered him saying now. Sixty years on she supposed exact verbiage no longer really mattered.
The plane rattled down the runway. Edna watched the early morning horizon slip by. These moments always reminded her of her mother’s silk scarf floating away on the wind. The way it twisted, trying to escape the inevitable hand of fate it was dealt, and the way her mother ran after it, crimson nails just barely missing the straggling threads.
Had she known then how some people were capable of so much more … had she understood the intricacies of human emotions, fits of rage and the abilities of people to do things outside the realm of “normal” … Like kill others or freeze moments …
Edna settled back into her seat. It took so much out of her now, she figured she only had a few more times in her.
A few more things to see, to record.
A few more moments to live, to love.
Instinctively she reached into the old leather messenger bag, relishing in the old smell of cigars and aftershave, and patted the worn inner pocket. Her notebook, a verifiable tome of time, was secure inside.
I know this doesn’t really make sense in it’s brief form but it was something that struck me and I wanted to share here.
