The Hiding Place

by C.J. Tudor

We try so hard, I think, to mark our place on this earth. To leave something of ourselves. But in the end, even those markers are transitory, impermanent. We can’t fight against time. It’s like trying to run uphill on an ever-accelerating descending escalator. Time is always moving, always busy, always cleaning up after itself, removing the detritus of the old and sweeping in the new.