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TIME
FLIES,
Tempus
fugit,
So
the ancient adage goes.
But
it prompts me to say,
Hey
Virgil, this is stupid stuff,
Because
for me at home alone
The
clock has stopped.
Then,
when I take another glance,
I
realize from the timepiece's face
That
I had been mistaken, my impression wrong,
There
has been some movement,
That
the clock’s hands have apparently moved.
Yet
far from time fleeting,
The
hours drag, even the second hand --
Its
motion becomes imperceptibly slow,
When
you are gone and
Day
and night must be faced alone.
And
you write to me and say that before long
You
will return home. You declare that
Less
than three weeks remain,
Soon,
you add, your absence this day turns to memory,
And
confidently note that time really does fly!
But
for me, however you may try to comfort me,
Your
consolation, it does nothing to hasten the hours!
When
I hear the clock, note the spaces
Between
its regular tick-to-tock, those intervals,
They
appear as if they were eternity, and your absence
--
Your face no longer upon your pillow,
Your
body missing from your side of the bed --
You,
you seem now to have been gone forever.
I
know. I know. I exaggerate!
Yet
I am not acclimated to them,
These
phenomena of your leaving,
Your
terrible disappearances for the sake of business,
These
separations, I may never become used to them.
You
were reared different from me.
When
you were still a child,
Your
father was a frequent traveler;
You
became habituated to the longing,
And
you learned to practice
The
ruse which had told your inner self that
He
will be home before you know it.
I
can hear you and your mother practicing the phrase,
When
dad was gone and you two sat at home alone,
“Oh
the days go by so fast!”
The
electronic image of time before me
(to
the bottom-right on the computer screen)
It
reads 8:59PM.
It
sits. It waits. My God, Darling!
My
God! I hope you see the situation.
My
condition is desperate.
The
clock no longer runs.
For
me here and languishing without you
Time
stops.
I
wish you were in my arms tonight.
