Now

Felix is about to have a birthday. “How old will you be?” we ask.

“Two,” he says decisively, as though that means anything.

“What would you like for your birthday?” we ask.

“Now!” he replies. “NOW.”

“Now” is his favorite word, followed closely by “more” and “mine”. But it occurs to me that “now”is in fact what he would like for his birthday, and when he would like it to happen. All Felix ever wants is the very moment he inhabits.

We are in Oxford visiting him, and our own sense of now is still a bit confused, with an inner clock still set to California. But now here is snowing blossoms, and a cobweb in the corner of the window pane is quivering in the breeze, and a pigeon is perched upon a chimney looking almost regal. Lilacs spill over old walls, just as they always have, and morning birdsong has given way to the distant sounds of traffic and a chain saw. If I descend three flights of stairs, I will come to the front door of this guesthouse, probably ajar, and a layer-cake wedge of sunlight will have entered, illuminating a very green wall. From the cafe drift scents of cinnamon and coffee.

I’m learning so much from Felix on the subject of now. But now for weary Californians requires caffeine, so stay tuned. (And I’m learning how to do this on a different device, so brevity is good.)