Tidbit About Time

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Time is of the essensce

It’s always moving, never stopping

There’s nothing I can do to slow it down

More hours is what I need

Busier hours is what I get

“Time stops for no man”, right?

But couldn’t it be more curteous to a lady?

It’s always “time to go here”

It’s always “time to do this”

It’s never “time to stop”

I need more time

More time to relax

More time to sleep

More time with my daughter

More time with my husband

More time with my family

More time with my friends

I need time to stop…just once in a while.

(Image from Kimberlykinrade.com)

The Mailbox

8/24/2011

She blinked her deep green eyes against the harsh midday light

The wind blew her hair away from her neck and face

Her dress tapped lightly against her knees as she walked

Her bare shoulders glistened bronze in the sun

The walk from the porch to the mailbox was long and suspenseful

Dust kicked up in the breeze and then dissipated

Her light blue sandals crunched against the dry earth and stone

She stepped to the other side of the old dirt road

She opened the rusted door slowly

Letting the light from the afternoon sun seep in

The old metal mailbox contained one letter

She reached her delicate hand inside

The tips of her fingers touched the yellowed, crinkled envelope

The paper was soft and stiff at the same time

The ink impressions could be felt through the back of the paper

The letters curled softly in loops and swirls

It wasn’t what she had expected

Months had been spent in this way

Anticipation, suspense, uncertainty

Some days were met with gratification

Others with disappointment

Today, it had been both

A tear drop fell on the bright white paper

The sun dried it before it barely had a chance to sink in

Her hands began to tremble, her knees felt weak

Her throat tightened, her lungs gasped for air

Her eyes burned and her heart pounded

This would be the last

She stared at the mailbox

This couldn’t be the last

So many words, so many letters

So many days, so many weeks

The mailbox had been a gateway

The mailbox had been a link

He wrote her, she wrote him

The lines of communication never severed

Their connection only growing stronger

She read through the letter again

The words sinking in, the pain digging deeper

Her body was too heavy, she sank to her knees

Her white dress now spotted with brown dust

The song of birds, the sway of trees

The brightness of day, the hum of a car

Dust flew around her as the car came to a halt

The Captain stepped out and knelt beside her

Her hero was gone

The mailbox stood empty

Light Leak

9/12/11

The camera shutter opens and closes
The light is let in and then quickly banished
She looks through the lens and holds the shutter button
The image disappears from the view finder
It reappears and she notices a loose film door
A fallen branch snaps behind her
She jumps when she turns to find him there
Greetings are exchanged an she smiles
She smiles and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, almost shyly
His eyes are so intense and she’s loved them from day one
His lips are soft an pink, they are pulled in a thin line
There are slight creases in his brow, but she hardly notices
His hair is neatly trimmed, his 5 o’clock shadow barely starting to show
He doesn’t say much, he watches
She rambles on about the beautiful day
The sun is at the perfect height
The shadows just right
Nature seems to be on her side today
He rubs his forehead against his palm
She never notices the worry in his eyes
The way he avoids her eyes
The stillness of his normally rapid moving tongue
She is sucked in by nature and can’t help herself
There was the butterfly, and the lilacs
There were the pine trees, and of course the giant oak
The daffodils and roses, gerber daisies and hydrandrias
The tulips, the patagonias, the garden was in full bloom
She saw everything and yet not what was right before her eyes
She turns his attention, with excitement, to the butterfly
She then expresses concern over the loose film door
He watches her fidgety fingers press against the film door
He watches her hair fall in front of her face as she looks down
Mid length layers that crop it just perfectly
She absent mindedly pushes her hair back and turns back to the butterfly
He listens as her camera clicks
He touches her arm gently, as if afraid he might burn her
Afraid he might leave scars on the delicately light, smooth surface
It isn’t until then she notices something is different
She looks at his bright brown eyes and sees something she doesn’t like
They’ve changed, the color hasn’t, but they now hold regret
Regret over what?
She now notices the creases in his brow
The way his lips are pulled tight
Now she worries
She turns abruptly to the butterfly hoping she’s wrong
The butterfly is gone