Time has a big mouth. You can see its crusty molars and old shiny fillings. Time flaps a tongue with bumps as big as boulders in a farmer’s field. It spills our guts out. Time can never be trusted with a secret. I once told it I was young. It made me regret my confession. I once said I did not fear the reaper. It bookmarked my statement saying we will revisit this topic later.
You can be nice to time but it will not return the favor. We give it rides on our wrist. We glance at it daily checking to see if it’s all right now. My mom keeps it in a bottle on her desk in the kitchen. She turns it every so often to watch the pouring of the sand. I go home to visit and we play with it sometimes in front of the fire. Finding words in a box of Boggle as time burns itself away in the fireplace. We cook with it, we drive it places. We find solace in it’s achieving. We announce its arrival with bells. We mark it with appointments. We give it every second of our focus. We ask nothing in return.
What does time do for us? It does not move upon request. It takes no timeout when something is caught in our eye. If we need a moment, it becomes instantly impatient. Obliging us, only for a moment. Time, I ask you, “Where’s the fire?” Can’t you stop long enough while I tie my shoes? Let us sit here together in a pocket of non-motion. You and I. Perhaps we will discover why you’re in such a hurry.