Master of Time
This appeared in Passages On Time, An Anthology by The Great Falls Writer’s Group, Great Falls, Virginia
Early in my life, I thought I was a master of time. The days, months, and years of my life were contained in a black box I called “work.” I woke in the dark, stayed at my desk, and returned home in the dark.
Perhaps I was a master of time because for decades I pushed it away. I learned that time didn’t exist as long as I didn’t pay attention to it. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s—they all passed as discrete days, solitary units not connected to one another. If I thought of it, l measured time by events at the office: a promotion , a different room, a new boss, and staff to manage.
Now that I’m retired , the darkness has been pierced. The box is open. Now, time is no longer defined by work but by the seasons: the movement of the sun, the colors of the leaves, the warmth of a gentle breeze. I see how related and connected these cycles are and how quickly they pass.
Now , I realize I am not a master oftime—merely an observer of it.