My mom, in her cleaning out the closet mode, walked out to the dining room where I was sitting today and handed me a Ziploc bag with old watches in it. After a conversation previously with my writing cohorts about needing a Steampunk costume, I eagerly snatched them up to use. My mom wanted to know if they worked, so I turned and twisted each of them making sure none of them did. One of them the second hand popped off as I turned the winder, so I was certain it wasn’t going to work again.

But time is what I need. Time to write. Time to think. Time to be alone. Time when no one is making noise. Time when no one interrupts me every two minutes. Time. Time. Time. Time.

So, I wished that all those watches could just miraculously saturate my life with the time I need to just get things done.

Instead they seem to be sucking time away.

Nothing has been the same since my dad died. People keep saying that it will take time to figure out what the new normal is … but time is the one thing that we don’t seem to have. Some days I find myself just wishing I had a few moments to sit back and think and dream about my dad, to remember all of him, to let him soak into my soul instead of fading away. Instead life moves on and keeps dragging me with it, kicking and screaming in silence and heartbreak and utter frustration.

I peruse my friends writing achievements and find myself jealous of their time. Their stories advance while mine lingers stagnant, the life slowly draining away. Instead of plying my characters with love affairs and mysteries to solve or running them up a tree and setting it on fire and watching them figure out how to get out of their predicament, my characters are standing against the tree tapping their watches and yawning.

While I wait for time to pass, and the world to return to normal, I feel like I’m disappearing in the folds.


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