“Where were you 10 years ago tonight?” At 11:00pm, this is the question that was circling the party we were at on New Year’s Eve. I was about to release my first record. Nashville was about witness its worst flood in the city’s history. My children, now 10 and 12, were still shitting in diapers.

tick…tick…tick…

At midnight, the party’s host put a dent the size of a champagne cork in the ceiling’s drywall and filled our plastic flutes. We raised a toast to the new decade. We shouted. We gulped. We kissed.
My son said, “it doesn’t feel any different.”

tick…tick…tick…

The second hand of an analog clock is a frail thing, a slender, spring-driven needle of a thing. But its quiet sweep is enough to move decades, to moves centuries, to move us all without pain, without perception.