Time keeps on slipping (slipping, slipping) into the future

The first removals company came yesterday to quote the job of shipping our belongings back to the States. Hours earlier, I had called our landlord to let him know that we are leaving and to recommend friends of ours as the next occupants of this flat. Taking care of these simple routine details has consumed me a bit more than I had anticipated. All that I can think about these days is our impending departure.

Our London life can be counted down in weeks now -- 10 1/2 more, to be exact. On August 1, we will be on a plane back to New Jersey and our time here will be nothing but a memory. Already, it has begun to feel like a memory, like we are living moments that I can fondly recall before they have even had a chance to occur. I'm ten steps ahead of myself it seems, because in my mind's eye we are already strapped into our seats as the plane hurtles down the runway, pointed towards home and away from home all at the same time.

"Slow down," I want to beg the clock, the calendar, the people around me. "Slow down," I want to tell myself as my brain launches into overdrive planning yet again. Slow down. Let me enjoy this. It's not over yet.

But there is no slowing down. I try to stop, to savor the moment, to really look at our current life and to enjoy what remains of it. But even that effort betrays me; if I open my eyes, I'm forced to see how quickly this has become this:


Any day now it seems, those new leaves will already be changing color and tumbling to the ground, blanketing the path of someone else's daily routine. It won't be mine. Our time in London will be over then, just as it now seems to be over even before it has actually come to an end. We're still here and yet we're already on that airplane, too. Fasten your seatbelts, folks. It's going to be a bumpy ride.