Three years here, three years there, next thing you know: six years.

I was scrounging about for a memory card for Robyn's new camera when I found this one, full of pictures from 2007. Three years ago, not long, really. My son is still small with round cheeks, my daughter is piling her hair impossibly high for prom or homecoming. There is a Christmas tree, probably the most beautiful yet. It always is.

I thought I would sit down and try to explain how it is those three years seems like such a long span of time to me, but I'm not sure I can. Over this hiccup in time I turned 50, nearly killed myself, watched a friend die, mourned a friend who died by his own fickle hand, watched my mother diminish, brain cell by brain cell. Over this increment, I remembered to be patient (because I had no choice), to grateful (for not having to be so god-damned patient), watched my wife and children with new eyes, learned that I am not invincible, but that I can endure . . . and overcome.

In 2007 I was taller, younger, stronger, and somehow less aware. Had I known what the next three years would hold, I suppose I would have to choose to experience them again, since I am what I've become and the journey has made me thus.

The good thing about the future is that we're ignorant of it. Not knowing what comes next, we begin each day. I think I'll go put some socks on.