Annuals, perennials.

It is a Sunday night, and I am home writing letters before stamp prices increase. I stepped out for a minute to walk to the bodega up the street. I looked up and saw the moon: waxing gibbous. My favorite. Waxing gibbous is like Christmas Eve. It is the plane ride across the country to see a special person. It is waiting, but it is expectant waiting. And you know as soon as the moon is full, as soon as Christmas Day begins, as soon as the plane touches the ground, the hourglass will be turned over and that moment you waited and waited for will quickly pass. Each minute spent is one that is gone forever.
So you prefer to relish that moment leading up to the big event. The butterflies. The unknown. The way time creeps so slowly. The way the moon looks just almost full. The promise.