Blink

I had a dream that every time I blinked, a day would whirl by, so that I would flash forward to a random moment the next day. Washing dishes at the kitchen sink with Ira Flatow introducing his show in the background - blink - walking carefully up the stairs at work with my full coffee cup in my hand the next day - blink - laughing about puns with my team mates in our tiny office the next day - blink - opening the door to the gym and holding it for the stream of sweaty people leaving the next day - blink. All of these days went by in less than a minute. By the time I woke up, I was 70. Every baby I had met had become a parent. Every animal I had known had died. Every war I had heard of had been won. Or lost. Or ceased to be fought. And I had been there for mere seconds of it. A ghost flashing through picture frames, floating in space, fading into backgrounds.