Some days, it feels as if I’m living on borrowed time.
When the images of September 11 fill my Facebook feed like they filled our television screen eleven years ago. But my loved ones weren’t there in those pictures.
When I remember that yesterday was the eleventh anniversary of when my sister-in-law pulled out in front of a semi truck. But today she’s babysitting my three children while I work.
When I looked out the window on Sunday and saw the black smoke in our field, the baler and the straw catching fire while my husband was right there, driving the tractor. But he was here to kiss me goodbye this morning.
Then sometimes, it feels as if I’ve been living on borrowed time ever since that welding explosion that almost took his life two months into our marriage. But we’ve had six years and three kids together since.
It’s hard to remember, amidst the hurry and the busy, the spilt milk and the dishes, but we’re all living on borrowed time. I just don’t always live like I know it.