Time

Sometimes I am happy.

I nuzzle the back of the corduroy couch from my quilted chrysalis. Sunlight comes through the window touching the small of my back as I begin to doze. Nothing lacks and therefore, only peace dwells in that moment. If Death came, what care would I have?

Unseasonable rain begins to file down February's bite. Pondering this odd addendum to winter I suddenly remember my first wrist watch as a child. It had red bands and depicted Strawberry Shortcake with her cat, giddy over a basket of berries. Almost as instantly as that memory flashes, I recall the Kenyan maxim: mzungus (white people) have watches but Kenyans have time.

Time as a teacher, but only for a time. We are working towards something else.

Coffee – candles – clementines.

In the last 15 minutes of writing time before work, Kyle sits down near me with his breakfast. I put on my headphones and try to ignore him but his eating noises penetrate the safe-zone of my work. It takes the concerted strength of Hoover Dam to uncurl my fists to make a suggestion. If he wants to have breakfast together, he need only ask and I can make time for that time. Glibly, quietly, he gathers his coffee and food, and floats downstairs to leave me complicatedly alone.

Time as a tool, teacher and weapon. I wield it all like a golden sword, knowing one day I must lay it down. Please, let me work a little bit longer.