Waiting for Time

Barely over the threshold, into the land of the dying, with a whip-poor-will for my psychopomp, go I. I know you bird, we met once before when your wings killed a clock. It’s nice to see you again my friend, but surely you know the clock has been restored. This is the kingdom of Chronus after all; wristwatch is the teraphim of His followers.

The fishers of men have long left this place to the dead burying the dead. They line-up their cars behind the hearse. They queue their bodies in front of the pharmacy. They set their breaths by the second hand. Oh that I had the helm of Hades to hide myself from these time coveters!

“Spare a minute ma’am?” says a man begging by the road side.

Everyone is waiting for the Reaper with both dread and awe. To be permitted a few more moments is their solitary desire. But moments are passing by like wind. As they reach up to catch one, it slips through their fingers and the strangest thing occurs. Relief. Another moment means another risk, another chance that life might take them from this place. And the realm of Chronus is so safe and predictable. No one wearing a watch wants to leave.

Fear of Dying. Fear of Living. Fear of Forward. Fear of Back.

This is not the place for me little bird.

I have no minutes to spare anyway. I have left my timepiece at home. The weight of it was too much to bear on this journey. No. I am not a time seeker. It takes too much time. And time takes too much of me. And I owe time nothing.

Move on Mr. Whip-poor-will, take me to the fishers of men. Perhaps they have managed to catch one who isn’t mesmerized by a tick tock. Or take me to Father-T, Himself. I’ll tell him what he can do with his hourglass.