What is time?

With my mother coming to the end of her life here on earth, I am reminded how quickly life goes by and that it is made up of a series of moments. When my father was a soldier in World War II, he was stationed in the Pacific. Every time he wrote home he would end the letter with "What is time?" This is how a young boy of 17 dealt with being homesick. This saying is also etched on his gravestone that my mother will be sharing with him shortly.

Last night, my husband and I, along with our children and their significant others, enjoyed a delicious meal at Taranta. This restaurant is in the North End on Hanover Street. The menu combines Southern Italian Cuisine with Peruvian Cuisine. All the windows were open and it was as if the energy coming into the restaurant from the street was shared with the patrons and vice-versa. This is restaurant week, and they offered a fixed price menu with lots of choices. We all enjoyed what we had.

There is nothing more intimate than sharing a meal with those we love. To listen, laugh, tell stories and be seen and heard by the person sitting across, diagonal or next to you at a table. For an hour and a half there is no place to go other than where you are. The urgency of the day and the worry of tomorrow is replaced with the present. Something that challenges most of us to be in. Our public display of affection on the street afterward, as we said our goodbye's to one another, replayed in my head during the night many times. Perhaps it is because my mother is in her final stage of her life that I am aware how precious and few these moments are.

Until we meet again, what is time?

Dorothy Goodwin