A year ago, I got a not-unexpected phone call, and - days after having come back from NYC - turned around and went back.
There are endless iterations of Time, and none of them seem to be consistent. A year should not be both so short and so long.
L'maan tizk'ru ("So that you shall remember")
If my boundary stops here
I have daughters to draw new maps of the world
they will draw the lines of my face
they will draw with my gestures my voice
they will speak my words thinking they have invented them
they will invent them
they will invent me
I will be planted again and again
I will wake in the eyes of their children's children
they will speak my words.
(from the Mishkan T'Filah, for the house of mourning)