Youth and Such

They say that time begins to speed up as we age. That a day of youth is a week of maturity. I am of the generation that has no idea how old they are. We were not born in a time of war. There were birth certificates, yes, but they were never completed. My father wrote most of my name, got about three pounds of my weight, and then his hand trailed off the page. I asked him about it, but he didn’t remember being my father. He screamed, “I have no son!” He hadn’t slept in weeks; his hair was full of leaves; he was nearly delirious. He kept yelling, “The day has finally come; any minute now I’ll meet my maker.” I said, “There is no maker.” “Son?” he replied, his eyes wet with what could have been tears. “How long has it been?” “Years,” I said, “years.” But I had seen him the other day.