Time keeps squeezing by me like a stranger making his way to the front of an overstuffed rush hour train. I paid its presence no real mind and yet I must have noticed its push forward, as I must have instinctively moved - slightly and to the left, right into the jabbing long-handled umbrella (so unnecessary in the San Francisco summer) of another laconic commuter - to give way for its passage.

Funny how that happens.

Precision, exercise, execution, action, movement, ever-so slight progression. All without paying attention.

You get busy. You put your head down. Spring falls into Summer. Summer tears into Fall. Longer days fading into shorter ones. Wearing white - before and after Labor Day. Mores and dictates be damned. What day of the week is it again? All of sudden you are worrying through last-minute Christmas shopping, which morphs into Festivus gift-giving circa-Winter of the New Year. Probably a better celebration in a multi-cultural, geographically-diverse, religious-flavor-of-the-week life world - but still marking one's continuous running behind the times.

With this lifelong running behind, I never manage to see Time's face. It is wily like that. Or maybe I am just slow like that. Or little bit of both.

Need to pay more attention. The train ride continues. Need to look up next time Time bustles by. Courage mustered, I may even grab Time's sleeve next time it "pardon me's" its way forward, force it to halt for a moment, to allow me to chat and ask it about the day. "How 'bout them ballplayers?" Or maybe to pay it a compliment. If only for its unending fortitude. More likely than not, I would abruptly stare. Bewildered. Maybe seem a little rude, if not for the irrepressible smile I would be wearing. Yes, that would be lovely. Just a moment to smile at Time. Knowingly. Sharing the secret. The moment is the thing. To know it is to live it is to own it is to be it.

Time moves forward on the train. But it does not get off.