SINGAPORE - I have always maintained that in tropical Singapore, with its lack of seasons and crops, it is hard to tell that time is passing. Not the time of clocks and calendars, but the natural rhythm of Earth spinning, gently tilting and yawing on its axis. Only the growing of children charts real time for me.
Now, as the heat-locked sameness of March starts to give way to the hazy whiff of April, I look at my 15-year-old son elongated like a strong weed and his 11-year-old brother's shoulders jutting in almost-too-small T-shirts, and truly feel the flowing of years.
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