Time has a strange way of writing its stories — not on paper, but on faces, hearts, and memories.

You watch it happen, quietly.

Your father slowing down a little more each day.

Your mother repeating the same stories — the ones you’ve heard countless times, but now you listen differently, because you know.

Today, her brother is visiting.

They sit together, talking about their childhood — the people who are no longer here, the laughter that once filled their homes.

They smile… eyes glistening with unshed tears.

In their words, the past comes alive again — fleeting, beautiful, fragile.

They once thought time was in their hands.

But time — ah, time is sly.

It slips away faster the tighter you hold it.

Like sand in your palm, it leaves you empty before you even realize it’s gone.

Now they speak of their parents — my Nana, my Nani.

And suddenly, a chill runs down my spine.

Will time do the same to them?

Will my parents, too, become stories I’ll one day tell?

I look at them — my everything and more — and I want to press pause.

But time doesn’t stop. It keeps writing.

It turned my little Gauri — my baby with curls and questions — into a strong, independent woman.

She still needs me, but not the way she once did.

And though my heart swells with pride, it aches for those days when my Nani fussed over my baby, gently scolding me for not doing it right.

Time never takes permission.

It moves, it molds, it transforms.

And in the end, all that remains are the stories it writes — in the tremor of a parent’s voice, the echo of a child’s laughter, and the quiet ache of love that refuses to fade.

⸻Suvi’s Scribble’s