The filigree hands of Grandma’s watch stopped decades ago, when she died. I hang from the minute hand pointing to 9. I’m 9 years old, kicking my shoes off, running barefoot to her house. I run upstairs to the attic, breathe in the smell of wood and dust and spiders, the smell of hidden treasures. It’s 9 o’clock and hazy sun pours through the attic window. There are 9 boxes. I hear a watch. Tick. Tick. Tick. I don’t have much time to find time. Time in a box. Watch in a box. Which box? I have to save time, save Grandma from time. I toss off the lids. Crochet collars. Buttons. Lace handkerchiefs. Green Jell-O. Time hangs from the minute hand. Time drops to the floor, runs to Grandma, and pulls her toward the future. I trip over boxes. The attic door is locked. I’m trapped. I can’t stop time. Time is running out, barefoot, eating Jell-O. I look out the attic window. Time waves goodbye. Grandma’s watch stops ticking. Grandma is gone.
published in Scuzzbucket
Comments