When was the last time I knew time was mine to waste?
When summers were looked forward to, and every hunger was starving, and every shadow was a monster ready to devour me. Sprinklers were fun. I could watch the same stupid movies over and over and fucking over again. When adults knew everything and holidays were magic. Finding 50 cents in the couch cushions would have been a good money day then.
When my mom would say, “Wait 30 minutes” I would think “but that’s forever!” . 30 minutes was 29 minutes to long to be sent to my room. Time crawled. 30 minutes was eternity.
What happened to 30 minutes? Cause I think another 30 just passed me by and I didn’t even notice. 30s fly by all the time now and the nights are always ending before I’m done with them. 30 minutes is now the appropriate amount of time to talk to my mom on the phone and feel like my duty is fulfilled. But when time was mine, everyday was filled with mommy. 30 minutes and I’d miss her terribly.
I’ve out grown so many things, most I expected. The one thing I didn’t expect to outgrow was time. I’m too big for it now. I stretch it out, the seams are bursting. But it’s not like I can take it off. I keep on growing and it just gets tighter and tighter, especially around the neck.
I want to scream “Enough, I’ve had enough of time. I want out. No more clocks, I’m through!” But there is no place beyond time, no place I can vacation. I’m strapped in for this ride whether I like it or not.
But when swings were passage to the moon and back, and games of chase felt like life or death. Play time was an adrenaline feast. Naps were mandatory, not pined for. 30 minutes was a life time. It bagged around me like a tent.
I want to go back, not to childhood with its melodramatic sorrows and its petty fears and stupidities, but to those drifting , clawing, life holding, thirty minutes of my shorter days.