Time is a woman.
You know this because she is both elusive & lingering, her gentle reminders pressing the skin around your eyes with a mother’s touch. You have a hesitant way of showing your appreciation for her, but she doesn’t mind. She shrugs & smiles when you curse the clock.
Time met me for breakfast this morning and we sipped coffee through our teeth, doing the old “I’m not talking if you’re not talking” bit. I chewed on toast. She let me eat both slices before taking my hands and telling me, “Now is the time.”
She led me to the door and pushed me out of it, a nudge into the world that I had wanted very much to ignore. But the world was still there and now, I was in it. I wanted to tell this hourglass mistress to back off, that thyme was just an herb and I certainly didn’t have time for this. I didn’t want the time.
But you know—she is kind of like your best friend, who can tell you when you’re being weird and not offend you, because, after all, you usually are being weird. Time stands still, her arms crossed, making it clear that she will not let you back in this house. She twirls a finger and points you onward. Go ahead, she says.
So you go. Time leaves you no choice but to move forward. She doesn’t even let you have five minutes to pack. You ask, what about the past? And my bags, the ones overflowing with all the feelings?
“You don’t need those,” she tells you.
You don’t need them. They don’t define who you are. The baggage and the places where you think you need to claim them—well, you can forget that. Because time goes on and people, things, move onward. If we could ask the future something, one thing, we might say:
“What can we bring?”
And the answer, every time, would be simple.