They come to see us on rainy days, all demure and church hat and impressed by themselves for performing the duty for a few minutes. Then they rush away – back to their lives, which they view as far more important. Funny, we view our own time as more important too – the difference is, our time doesn’t go away like their lives will, so we might be right.
When they aren’t around – mostly – it’s calm and peaceful. We get on with doing the hobbies we enjoy most. We live here but can fly anywhere we want any time – so a lot of us see all the places we wouldn’t let ourselves see when we were too important and too busy to enjoy things and live the little bit we had. We can see those places now. Not as vibrant, not alive, but it passes time and there’s a lot of that.
We play bridge. Tell stories. Talk about our days. Marge over on plot 357 has a hell of a singing voice – she toured in World War 1, you know. Everyone has stories, jokes, anecdotes, memories… and heavy, expensive lessons… to share.
And then some days, we’re left alone and the sun comes out and we stand around and dance in the sun like its a rave. A garden party held in celebration of the joyful exuberance we too had for such a short, short, short while.
We don’t move like we used to… you need life for all that. But we still have some moves.
There’s an eternity, and garden parties along the way mark the decades and the centuries like our watches once ticked over with the seconds.
Why not? They won’t see. They don’t see past themselves, ever, that’s always been the problem hasn’t it?
Anyway. Out of my way. I’ve got a drink in my hand, the rhythm’s getting catchy and I think old Marge is eyeing me, finally…
I got to get to it, son.