TOUCHSTONE
ART LIT ABOUT SUSTAINABILITY STAFF

Sure, time can be a gift. It can be appreciated like an abstract piece of art that no one seems to understand, but still everyone stops and takes a moment to admire. Time takes moments away that we wish would stay with us. Like that time we watched The Lion King and you cried when Mufasa died and made me promise I wouldn’t tell. Or when we thought we liked each other and made-out after school, but soon realized we were very wrong. Or that time when you lied and I couldn’t forgive you. Or when took your last breath, and I had to say goodbye. Time took you. Time found a way to limit my ability to think for a long while.

Time seemed to move too slowly. It made me think that I was depressed. My mother told me, “Time will heal it.” Time tried and tried to influence my mind and comfort me into seeing the beauty of the world around me, but I wouldn’t have it. Then time gave up on me. Or did I give up on time? Time moved on without me, and I was stuck in a past where all I saw was your ice-cold face filled with regrets, words never said, and promises never kept. I told you I was sorry once, when I knelt beside you with my hands folded together and my eyes closed. I wonder if you heard me.

“It’s time to move on,” my friends would tell me. I knew they were right, but how could I move on? I couldn’t stand the sight of you, motionless with skin that looked as if it were covered in paint. You were stuck in my head, day in and day out. I was trapped.

Time kept going, and I kept ignoring what it was saying to me. ‘Tick, you’ll get past this. Tock, I will heal you.’ I was frozen, and time was spinning around me like the bar floor after three too many whiskey waters. So I folded my hands, closed my eyes, and pictured your stone cold face. I longed to join you, wherever you were. And just like that, time was up, the clock struck twelve.

Then time did this crazy thing that time tends to do. It started over.

ERIN
MULCAHY

THE WAITING

Creative Nonfiction

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