I have a shelf up high in a bathroom cabinet where I keep my contact lenses. I wear daily disposables which I purchase once a year. The lenses come 90 to a box, which means I need to buy four boxes per eye to get me through a year. This also makes for a nice reminder; when I get to my last box I know it’s time to make another eye doctor appointment.

Another weird thing my contacts do is mark the seasons. Each box of 90 is roughly three months of lenses. So on days like today, when I have to get out the step stool and pull down two new boxes from their storage up high, it means I can tell you with some precision that a season has passed since the last time I did this. In today’s case, it’s been exactly one season since I got my lenses. Three months ago I was sitting in my eye doctor’s office marveling at his cool lens holder for reading glasses (a contraption right out of a Thomas Dolby video, which sadly I did not get a photo of). This is not quite accurate. Three months ago I received the lenses he prescribed me, but when measuring time by boxes in the bathroom cabinet, a few days off is close enough. 

This is admittedly a very strange way to mark the passage of time, and yet I have this same idea every time I reach up and pull out two new boxes. Unlike the regular ways to mark the seasons, there is no snow or falling leaves, there is no bright sun or newly sprouted green buds. There is just a step stool and boxes stretched for inside a dark cabinet. And yet I feel them just the same.

I supposed this kind of ritual might come in handy on a ship making a long journey through space; a way to mark the seasons that our bodies must yearn for but can no longer experience inside the cool confines of a space ship.

A mother might turn and say, “Did you get the Winter boxes down, son?”

“But, Mom!” Her son might reply, perhaps with a foot stomp of frustration, “we just started Autumn!”

“I know you don’t like the cold, sweetie, but our bodies need the Winter. Besides, Captain Wethers said there’ll be snow this year.”

“Great. Cold wet stuff all over the deck.”

“Cold wet stuff that’s fun.”

“So you say. But it means I have to wear shoes again.”

“Only when you want to honey, and only on the rec deck. There’s not going to be snow down here.”

“How do you know? I thought snow fell everywhere.”

“It fell everywhere that was cold and wet. Even though it will get cold enough, I know for a fact there’s not going to be any snow on this level.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s no place for the water to drain. The Captain may want your body to experience Winter, but she’s not going to flood the rooms where we live. Besides, the Captain’s quarters are the lowest on this level. Any snow here would flood her rooms first.”

“Really?”

“Who do you think engineered this part of the ship?”

At which point the son might relent enough to say, “Yeah, okay, but I don’t have to like it.”

To which the mother would smile and maybe tousle his hair before saying, “No you don’t. And no one is going to make you like it either, But in case you do change your mind, I drew up plans for a sled. I figure we’ll have enough credits to print one in the expresser before the snow starts.”

“What’s a sled?”

“Remember the tube we rode last summer down the water slide?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like that, only faster.”

“Faster?” Now there is a gleam in the boy’s eye.

Then the mother will wisely seal the deal. “Much faster, but its also dangerous. Younger kids aren’t going to be allowed. It’s only for you and Mable, and the other fourth graders.”

A grin would now spread on his face. “So Christy can’t ride on it?”

“Your sister is too small, unless you want to take her with you. But it’s up to you.”

“Okay mom. I’ll get the winter box.”

“Don’t forget your shoes. You’ll need them if you want to go fast.”

“On the snow?”

“Bare feet will slip too much. Shoes will give you traction on the slippery surface.”

“Snow is slippery?”

“Google skiing after you get down the box. You’ll see.”