The time * 1/26/14

There used to be the time,                                                             when I was two or four or seven.                                                              I would some times find myself adrift within                                        and refocus with a sense for time.                                                      The beginning of this observation seemed abstract,                        like understanding . . . why to obey                                                   and what’s a family(?).                                                                      But looking back, what seems to be two years old                                  in time was two, and five was five and nine,                                        not old enough!                                                                                       In memory, these were passages; value-taught by living.                Time, this way, had many benchmarks, questions like;                breasts, no milk, how come(?),                                                           when can I learn to ride(?),  how old to stay up late(?),                   when can I be home alone(?).                                                                All these things had time requests.                                                      And time had these answers, called years,                                                   far too hard to understand yet they would come to pass                     and I had memories to match.                                                                 Time had years that measured me.                                                                   Then there were the times, called seasons.                                                I somehow lived through a few without a hint or notice.                    But then they came and seasons meant a lot to me.                     Winters had snow, summers all-day play.                                           Seasons remembered, were the measure;                                               last winter to go tobogganing, this year to shovel snow,                       that summer then, the park was home,  and this summer, swimming lessons on my own.                                                              Truly time had these demonstrations called seasons.                           And seasons measured me.                                                                      Then there were the times, called months,                                        though many months together still meant a year.                            Surely they were always there but I never really cared.                       Months had dates with obligations,                                            especially for school-bound ways.                                                 September to startup again, December for the break.                          Months had measures like dental checkups,                                  hearing tests and later, sports.                                                          And months became my measure.                                                        But time had this other thing, called days.                                             And days were steeped with anticipation                                              and splashed with personality.                                                          Days felt like clothes, and time was my closet then.                       There were Tuesdays and Fridays,                                                    and worst of all Mondays.                                                               There were odd things called holidays                                              and even leap year days.                                                                           In high school then, a friend who just turned four!                          Days were a photo album and life, the best of time.                           Oh but time had other things called hours                                           and meaning was time’s call.                                                          Hours were pesky and unceasingly in a row.                                  Hours became a staring face on my wrist,                                             a map of town to get around, to me.                                                 Hours had stage lights and performance cues.                             Hours had hell and damn and me looking to lose a few.                     Yes, there were minutes, yet I had always sensed them private          like farts or thoughts                                                                          that never reached for speech.                                                            But minutes were also the moments of events,                         seductive, delicious and self-serving.                                                    Minutes could be stolen yet often one-of-a-kind.                          Secretly,  minutes became a diary,                                                      my fill of life, and my time.                                                                    It seems only recent to me that time had let us meet.                 Seconds, of course, were always there,                                                like the visible world of insects or encyclopedias on the shelf.                             But seconds were not an ideal match for words to say.                   Seconds had the feel of cumbersome and stupid,                             taking minutes, even hours to talk them out!                                          Only seconds were the stuff of attention span,                                     that is till seconds took these “aha” stands.                                     Seconds knew what minutes pondered.                                        Eventually seconds reveled to me the gossip of time                         and introduced my breathing as a friend.                                        Now there are nanos and time-as-constant myths.                              Who was that projectionist called time anyways?                             Now, and just ran out . . .