this morning on muni

"Time is short"

says an old man to me at the N train stop, and it makes me pause, thinking about the weeks and months behind me, the days that seem to flow through my fingers like running water, soon only fragments of moments left to memory.

Time is short, and so we hurry to get done all that we can, rushing through the day, through the years. I can't help but wonder if we ever really stop to look around, before it's too late.

I watch my new friend get off at VanNess station. At 86, he says, time is especially short for him. But still he takes the time to talk to a stranger, to offer a smile. And so I offer one back, silently wishing him well as I ponder his words.