When Temporary Permanently Expires

As I was preparing to uproot myself and move away, I realized how much the act of moving brings time and its temporary-ness to the forefront of life. Suddenly, weeks are fleeing and leaving behind only days, and eventually the days hand out numbered minutes until none remain and it becomes “time.”

Perhaps this is life, though- a series of moments that are innately temporary but which we are so keenly deluded by their perceived permanence and longevity.

As much as I know that something is temporary, I always still grant it permission to carve out a permanent space in my mind and my heart. It deeply roots itself in my memory and becomes tangled in the roads and highways of my emotions.

I think back to an event which I always knew would be temporary- graduate school at UIC.

I knew that when I began UIC it was a temporary two years. I was on borrowed time and residing in rented spaces. But nonetheless, it became my home. It carved its nooks and settled inside of me so comfortably that attempting to resist it would have been criminal.

There were people there, and places there, and small, tucked-away spaces there…oh, Dr. Suess and the places you’ll go! I considered these things- these people and places and small, tucked-away spaces- mine; I owned them. The Damen and Schiller bus stop was my stop. Locker 152 at the West Campus Gym was my locker. The seat in the front row, slightly to the left in SPH 132 was my seat. In reality, these were shared spaces; others’ ownership overlapped with mine. Someone else is currently waiting at the Damen and Schiller bus stop, enjoying the view of the park and the smell of Stan’s Donuts. Another is using locker 152, playing a combined game of Tetris and Jenga, manipulating and balancing a pair of gym shoes, a lunch, and a school bag inside of a tiny locker. The left-center seat in SPH 132 knows countless notes, naps, and worried frowns of those who have sat there.  So these places may not be mine, but my memory of them is.

Maybe- just maybe- there’s a small, little piece that is mine. Maybe it’s just in my mind, maybe just in my heart, but most likely in both. It was mine for those ten minutes every morning, for the hour and a half every other weekday, and for the 50 minutes every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. I will probably never return to the stop, refill the locker, or settle into that desk again. Others will leave too, their temporary time permanently expired. Those places, though? They are what remains and so will the ownership in our head and our hearts. And that’s life- our time is temporary, but our ownership of the memories- the people and the places, the sometimes small, tucked away spaces- those are permanent.

And so it became “time” on a rainy July morning. My permanent home slipped between my fingers allowing space and open hands for a new residence- Houston. In that time, Texas has passed out its days to me, a number of nights, and some ticked away minutes. I am aware, just as I was at UIC, that parts here are temporary, but for now I’m making the wise mistake of letting them settle in my bones as if they are everlasting. That is, afterall, the beauty of the temporary- it is we who control its permanence.