Dear Time

Dear Time, 

‍

Mom always said you were not to be wasted. 

‍

Because time is unreplenishable, 

she said, 

and therefore precious. 

In her eyes, 

money, water, and plastic bags 

were all secondary to you— 

wasting them made lesser sins 

than wasting you. 

How does it feel to 

know that you’re 

priceless? 

‍

When I was four, 

the world was infinite, 

and the grains of sand in my hourglass 

could fill a desert. 

We were but casual acquaintances, so 

I strolled through life, 

unhurried, carefree. 

My only fears 

were falling into bottomless heating ducts in the floor

and the dark. 

‍

When I was nine, 

my sand made up a beach so long 

I couldn't see its end. 

You were 

erratic and capricious— 

hours got pulled and compressed 

like toy slinkies. 

I thought, 

maybe you had forgotten, 

so I hurried or stalled or got off task 

to fill in the gaps of your memory. 

Years passed and

blurred like water stained pages. 

‍

When I was thirteen, 

I realized that 

the desert I thought I saw 

was really only a slowly shrinking playground sandbox. 

A mirage. 

I realized 

that grains of sand are small and insignificant, but they fall fast 

and get lost in the pitch dark abyss forever. 

It was my childhood fears 

all over again. 

They had merged and reincarnated. 

‍

I realized 

that you are not forgetful or lenient, but merciless and unforgiving. 

Those who do not pay attention to you get crushed under your iron fist. 

‍

Your betrayal hurt. 

‍

Even now, 

at fourteen, 

it's still the same. 

Sometimes, 

I and the many others 

in my now finite world 

have pounding heads 

and bloodshot eyes 

and hollow chests. 

Our eyelids sag when we do. 

It was the summer of 2021 

that I realized your beauty. 

‍

Thank you for painting the sky.

For the flames of dawn 

and the embers of dusk. 

For the dark wash denim of midnights 

and the million shades between kingfisher and forget-me-not of noon. 

‍

Thank you for the change you bring every season, for trees 

with leafless limbs, 

branches bowing with fruit, 

or citrus colored leaves. 

For glistening snow and brilliant sunshine, 

for the bitter cold and the blistering hot, 

and everything in between. 

‍

Thank you for teaching me 

that special moments, 

however fleeting, 

age like wine and cheese and cured meat, 

that they grow sourer and sweeter and bitterer as you go on. 

‍

I know that my hourglass 

will eventually run out. 

But I also know 

there is beauty in the evanescent, 

that those that burn out quickly 

burn the brightest. 

Thank you for everything you gave me. 

I will forever 

(or at least until my time is up) 

be grateful. 

‍

- Josephine