Time

7:30

Time: an essential being, something that portrays the indefinite progress of existence; unconsciously running our lives into oblivion. Something that we never quite have enough of, especially at the ultimate end.

The word cancer at first meant little to me, just another word left to float in the wind...little did I know that it would consume my entire being. December 30th, 2014, a date that will forever be engrained into my soul; the day the greatest person in my life, my mom, looked me in the eyes, told me that her timer had been clicked on, and the only thing which read on the screen: a few months. When we are conscious that someone’s countdown timer has been clicked on, we become aware of time. All of a sudden, each minute, each second, each millisecond pulses faster than the last. The gentle tick of a watch or chimes of bells in a clock tower transformed into bombs inside my brain. My body tensed to every beat, and I developed a nervous tick in my foot. Everyday, the second I walked into school, I began the countdown till I could see my mom again. Bed times drifted to 1 or 2 AM; wake up alarms pushed back to 7. My hand clutched my phone constantly, each vibrate sending an adrenaline rush through my veins. Would I get that text or call today? Would today be the day? I never got that text, I never got that call.

Weeks leading up to my mom’s passing, our house was devoured in life. Flowers, notes, candles, and presents littered the hallways with their disgusting lovely meanings, but none of them held any color. These beings; intruders; replacers were only pure violators. They were in place of the ones who never visited or called. The ones who satisfied themselves by sending a material item instead. Items which, in a few short days, were tossed to the undesirable pile of apologies and lost time. Time, to those, meant nothing. It wasn’t a being. It didn’t mean anything to them except for telling them when to wake up, go to bed, and go to work. We all are or were those people once upon a time, no matter how much we’d like to deny it, the truth still stands.

It was the night of March 17th, 2015. My fingers caressed the book I was reading, even though my eyes weren’t grasping the words as they normally did. Finally, I tossed my book to the end of the cream-sheeted bed and turned to face my mom. She was laying beside me, her mouth gently hanging open, her eyes drooped, yet awake. Death had written its ugly words across her body, and yet she she was still so beautiful. Beneath her gray t-shirt which read “Super Girl,” her chest rose and sank as she struggled for breath, while the annoying suction noise of her breathing tube echoed throughout the quiet house. That was the moment, which I knew time was up. I reached down to grab her weak frail hand just as she reached to grab mine. We stayed like that. For the remaining hours, we laid holding each other, and all of a sudden the ticking on my watch grew quiet, the clocks in the house laid to rest. The only thing I listened to was the strong gentle thud of her heartbeat, and the sniffs of falling tears in the opposite room. Oh, wait. Those were mine.

Somehow in the middle of the night I had made it up to my parents bedroom, and had fallen asleep there. I awoke bolting upright on the cold, drizzly morning of March 18, 2015 with sweat waterfalling down my face. The only thing that was on my mind was my dream. Except, I couldn’t remember anything about the dream, only one thing. A time. 7:30. My dad was sitting across the room on his computer, his face sunken in defeat. We looked across the room from each other, my eyes begging to ask the question I didn’t want to speak. He shook his head. I gently relaxed all my muscles and fell back against the covers. Good. She’s still alive. There’s still time. I pressed my hands together as if to start a prayer, but a voice, my aunts, calling up the stairs, made me freeze. “Gardy, come.” I was paralyzed. My eyes followed my dad as he ran down the stairs and all was silent for those boiling seconds. Then, the house was filled with the chorus of screaming sobs and my body launched into action. No, no, no. My legs moved without my say so and, as soon as I reached the bottom of the staircase, I turned my head to the right to look into my mom's make-shift room, and the sight made me collapse onto the floor. My mom’s lifeless eyes were almost closed, closed enough to tell that she had been sleeping. My dad was holding her, and although he was yelling something with words, I couldn’t hear it. I didn’t want to hear it. My vision blurred to the point where the world was swimming in crystal clear water, but only one thing stood out to me amongst the waves: the clock which hung gently from above our oven. As the sun pierced through the impenetrable dark clouds, the clock's awful blaring red numbers shoved through my eyes and pierced my soul: 7:30.

I once lived in a world where time only meant numbers, a world where many people still are. Now my world consists of my appreciation of time; my understanding of it. To this day, that dream forever remains a mystery. Whether it was a sixth sense or a sign, I believe it had to do with the irrefutable love I had, and still have, for my mom. Time isn’t something that should be taken for granted. Time, an ever ending being who doesn’t stop for anyone, not even when our timers are clicked on.