A timer sits in front of me and eats the seconds away, crunching into my day and my life, reminding me that time is relentless, ticking away as life moves along. It stops for no man--no woman either. During the crises of life it seems to slow down for sorrows and the sorrows never seem to end. The rapturous seasons of life fly right by us, but really, time is just marching steadily along—never changing. It’s a baby crawling on the floor searching for pennies to cram into its mouth. It’s a teenager driving the restored, candy-apple red ’66 Mustang and picking up the brown-eyed girl for a movie. Time is a man kissing his wife as he leaves for the office and putting macaroni and cheese on his table before rushing off to coach little league. All too soon it’s a man snoring in his recliner, remote in hand and cat in lap, flipping through the endless channels and finding only nothing. It’s a hearse parked at Omega Cemetery and a weeping family. Time needs no one and is totally sufficient unto itself, marching steadily toward eternity.
Humans have had a love/hate relationship with time since the earth began. We don’t understand it and never will, but we love toying with the concept. If only we could control it. . . . If only. Authors have written an infinite number of books about time machines. Just the idea of moving from one era to another is intriguing, to say the least. For example, I’d love to go back to my mother’s childhood and take a peek at it from the safety of a time machine. I certainly don’t want to live there in the Hayes’ family’s shotgun house, heated by the sun in the summer and frozen with winter’s harsh winds in the winter. All too well I remember the privy—the outdoor toilet and I assure you that the memory is as close as I want to get to the real thing. However, I wouldn’t mind seeing Aunt Judy sitting on the porch holding her baby girl or Grandpa and Granny in the old porch swing while we children played in the yard with Old Jack, the hound dog.
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