The silent agony of time
The silent agony of time
In the layers of the barn's dust, her father's watch is quietly ticking—slowly, steadily, and relentlessly, as if breathing the last gasp of death. The face of the watch, golden with the light of a sun setting, points to no place or every place—both simultaneously and forever at 3:17. The crack in the base of the minute hand, much like the crack in her mom's voice when her dad left, reminds her of what has never been mended by the passing of time—it has simply ''been preserved''. As her old and aged fingers brush against the cold glass of the watch, the wind howls through autumn, leaves scrape down the sidewalk, and all over again, there are memories she can't recall. This watch does not tell time. This watch tells grief. Each "almost," each "not yet," she has buried beneath calendars and fake smiles. The quietness of this watch holds a scream—that is what time does—time does not move forward. It waits, cold as grief, exact as a diamond-edged truth.
