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Emails clogged my inbox like a gang of masked bandits, threatening to steal my time.
“Can
you spare two hours next Thursday?” the first message said.
When I read the words, greed surged
through me, with guilt close behind. I had offered to volunteer for the local hospice. But I wanted to keep those hours to
myself, like a seven-year-old hoards Halloween candy.
Before remorse gained traction, I replied.
“Sorry, not available.”
And then I saved that time—poured it into a Mason
jar and stored it in the refrigerator. Like my mother had put up green beans, I preserved hours.
In the freezer stood a jar filled with the hour salvaged from skipping yoga. In the crisper, another with the hour conserved
by not calling my brother. And behind a carton of spoiled milk—time earned by starting my day at six a.m. instead of
seven.
There wasn’t much food in the refrigerator. It was filled instead with the hours saved
by cutting out visits to the grocery store.
I also hoarded minutes. Stuffed into sandwich bags
and tossed in the gadget drawer, they were easy to find whenever tardiness threatened. It presented no mystery when an unplanned
trip to the gas station, an accident on the freeway and a detour around construction wreaked havoc with my schedule. I’d
failed to grab a bag of minutes on my way out the door.
I stored weeks in a cedar chest at
the foot of the bed. Two from the retreat that I skipped last year, another from passing up my nephew’s college graduation
and another from missing my favorite uncle’s legendary seven-day fiftieth birthday party, thirty years ago.
Years. I saved them too. They lay in a pile on the top shelf of the linen closet. Last winter, when I
searched for a spare blanket, the stack tumbled down on my head. The years that I had worried about making money. Those that
I’d squandered, looking for love. And all the years I had climbed the corporate ladder. (Never did reach the top.)
The time that was saved all over the house should have abolished the need to rush. And yet, there
I was, running to catch a connecting flight. Missing it forced me to wait two hours for the next one. I wheeled my carry-on
through the concourse in search of a snack. The case seemed heavier than when I had taken it onto the plane. I unzipped it
to investigate. Two Mason jars fell out. The hospice hours.
I don’t want them right now.
Time-ly wants always missed their connection with time-ly demands. I seldom ended up with the right amount.
When my husband left for a weekend business trip, I had plenty to dispose of any way I liked. I could have painted the guest
room. Planted a hundred tulips. Composed a poetic epistle.
But as the sun went down on Friday, I sat
in front of the television. 60 Minutes turned into Nature, which morphed into Wheel of Fortune,
which soon became Survivor. I broke free from the hypnosis mid-way through Wrestle Mania and a bag of Oreos.
That’s when I got suspicious.
I checked the refrigerator. When I opened the door, a Mason jar
fell out and landed on my toe. Four others crashed behind it. Then dozens of jars spilled out, rolling all over the kitchen
floor. Just as I’d suspected, I had too much time on my hands.
So I quit saving it. I
stopped running out of it. I finally got the joke.
Time folds over on itself, according to its
whims.
When the evening news begins, the clock on the stove says 5:57, the microwave reads
5:55, and the radio blares 6:00. It’s 6:03 in the bedroom and 6:08 in the car.
And time snickers,
“Tricked you again.”
Its passage ticks away only in my thoughts. I scurry towards a future
that I’m trying to reach before it’s too late. But I panic if it shows up sooner than expected. From a bitter
past, I’d prefer to turn away; yet I romanticize the good old days.
Time belongs to memories
and dreams. But real life plays out right now–in the scent of clean sheets, the song of a cardinal, and the sweaty palms
of fear. No plans, no appointments, no missed flights. Nothing to anticipate. Nothing to regret.
Time
is a party favor. A balloon that expands with my every laughing breath. Until the pop of revelation, when self-imposed limits
drift to the earth in shreds.
And I’m left clinging to nothing.
Existing
outside of time.
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