Ice

After dinner tonight my brother and I started our usual job of clearing the table, rinsing the dishes, and emptying the dishwasher. Tonight it was a little more exciting then usual, though. Tonight there was leftover ice.

I couldn't tell you where this excitement came from, this fascination with melting ice between our fingers under a hot stream of tap water, but ever since dish-washing became our job rather than Mom's we've liked it. You turn the faucet as far to the right as it will go and make sure it's on a continuous stream instead of a spray. You can't allow the stream to get too heavy, though, or the fun will be over before it starts. Keep it just above a trickle. Hold the ice between your thumb and your forefinger. Watch the dent turn into a hole, into a crevice, into a wide open space. Listen hard for a hint of a crackle, a dying breath. Watch it disappear. Feel the nothingness between your fingers. Swear something was there a split second ago.

That's the weirdest part, really. I can never pin-point the exact moment the ice becomes water. One second there's something between my fingers, and the next there's not.

My brother looks different tonight. He's been complaining of poor vision for months, and his glasses finally came today. He came home with a haircut as well. He looks much older than he is, but then again, he's getting pretty old. As of last month he's taller than me by a good inch. And he's five years younger.

Harding University sent me an application packet today. It's not my first choice, but I figure I better apply anyway in case my first choice falls through. It said "Apply early!" No kidding. Way too early.

I don't know if I mentioned that this was my second to last year as a Kamper. I went to the banquet with a little boy named Ethan. I kinda fell in love with his excessive knowledge of Spiderman. :)
Anyway, in conversation I asked him what grade he was going into, and I figured it had to be fourth or fifth, because he was so stinkin' cute and little. But I was wrong. He's going into SEVENTH.

I remember when seventh grade seemed old. When Lizzie McGuire was in seventh grade. MIDDLE SCHOOL. The land of lockers and multiple teachers. Remember that feeling? Remember thinking algebra had something to do with the order of the letters in the alphabet? Remember not knowing about the existence of bottom lockers? Remember innocence?

I stopped thinking middle school was old in about sixth grade. At that point it was high school. High school's where you really started figuring everything out. That theory disappeared in about ninth grade. At that point senior year felt old.

Guess what guys? I finally feel old.

"Graduate" doesn't sound that old. It just sounds kinda... kinda terrifying. Because in about a year, real life starts.

And I'm sitting here wondering where my childhood went. Realizing how much of it I have absolutely no recollection of. I have a few very vivid memories. Leaving the theater at the beginning of "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" because Cindy Lou Who was surely being violently cut to bits by the wrapping machine. Fighting valiantly for my belief in Santa Claus out in the parking lot at my elementary school. Getting a rug burn playing in the foyer after church.

I can picture the sights, smell the smells, tell you exactly what the lighting in the room was like. I remember. That was yesterday. But it was really forever ago. My life's disappearing before my eyes.

But maybe it's not disappearing. Maybe it's melting.

Someday I'll be all gone. The faucet of time will continue to rush down on my life and in a blink, in an indeterminate second, I'll be washed down the garbage disposal into eternity. But you know what? I get a few seconds to let the water run between my fingers and feel the inexplicable joy that is living.

I'm excited to melt my ice.