Glancing backwards rarely helps. I’m coming from there, not going that way. So why do I turn around? Twisted around, looking backwards, I risk missing what is ahead of me. Or risk bumping into the present. For what? For ghostly memories of the past that spin round and round before me like phantoms riding a merry-go-round.
I look down and notice that my hands are closed. I open them, spreading my fingers wide, and the past slips through my fingers. It is not as though I will forget the past. What was. But it is not my reality now. The good and bad intertwine together and pour out of my open hands like sand through an hourglass. I gently brush the remaining grains off of my hands as preparation for what lies ahead.
I ready myself, looking straight in front at the path before me. The sun is shining. “Let go, Amy. The past is done. The present is unfolding before you now. Be present for it. You don’t want to miss it.”