Time doesn’t want to fly. She wants to sit down and eat. I cook her a nice meal. She sucks it down in a couple of seconds. Time pulls all the food out of the refrigerator and tosses it into her mouth. She eats the dishes and the utensils. She eats the pots and pans, the dish drainer and the soap, and the potted plant on the windowsill.
It’s not enough. Time is voracious.
She gulps down the furniture and the bedding. The more she eats, the bigger she gets. Her head hits the ceiling, and her shoulders rub against the walls.
Time wants more.
She unbolts everything attached to the walls and ceilings — cabinets, pictures, lamps, curtains, even the window frames, and bolts it all down into her endless stomach.
The rooms are empty. Her stomach growls.
She wobbles around the floor and eats the cake crumbs the dog didn’t find. She rolls into the laundry room and licks all the fuzzy stuff out of the lint catcher.
The dog is missing. Did he have the good sense to skedaddle, or was he dessert?
Time can’t lift her heavy body into the air on those tiny wings. Instead, she wraps her arms around me and holds on for the ride.
I can’t zip my pants. Buttons pop off shirts. I expand with time.
Time is still hungry. She gobbles up the memories I forgot to stuff into my purse.
It’s about time to put my foot down. On Time’s butt. With the kick I plan to give her, she’ll fly without those wings.
Drats, I can’t remember a thing. What did I want to do? And why? And why am I so darn big?
published in Scuzzbucket
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