The golden leaves of fall are in my future. They are also in my past. Is there a difference?

This woman is savoring the quiet of being close to her unborn child. What will he or she be like? How will the dynamics of their family scramble to make room for more attention? More mouths? More noise? More love?

Time presents as linear. One thing happens in turn, or at least a conglomerate of things.  Then that collection steps aside to make room for the next set of circumstances. 

But on a golden morning in October, or a nippy one in February, it all swirls together. The child that is just learning to walk is also the one with his hands on the steering wheel, or the handlebars of a new blue bike. The girl in dress ups is also the one in the dressing room at David's Bridal, or leaning over the changing table choosing between the frilly ruffles or the purple onesie.

Einstein claims that time is so that everything doesn't happen at once. But there are moments, like the one spent in solitude, where it feels like it does anyway. When I held my babies in the crook of my arm, it seemed impossible that there was ever a day when they were not part of my life. Maybe there wasn't. I just didn't look in their direction closely enough yet to notice them. My parents are gone, technically, and yet when I hear my mother's voice inside my head I think, maybe not.