Two weeks ago, I went to a funeral service for the grandfather of my childhood friend. You know how it goes. A lot of childhood memories get lost, but the ones that remain are burned deep. 35 years ago, she and I sat on the wide steps of that same church where her grandfather’s service was with our legs stretched out in front of us and Vacation Bible School construction paper crafts in our hands. With the help of a row of church ladies standing in an assembly line in the church basement, we made something called “dirt cake,” scooping crushed Oreos in a red plastic cup on top of chocolate pudding with a gummy worm for garnish. Sitting on the steps outside beneath the steeple, shoveling spoonfuls of chocolate dirt in my mouth, I watched lightning bugs flicker in the distance as summer’s timeclock dwindled. This is how I always see us, though we have grown to have our own families now and buried people we felt at that time in our lives must be eternal.

The timeclock that dwindles summer h…