Time

Inttro: So this story had been an assignment I kept putting off til it was the morning it was due. I was tired of hearing the clock tick... so I wrote about it. Nothing else seemed to come, until I let in a little truth to the writing. Then it came in a flood... small hints of my real life mixed with complete fiction. I wrote this a little more than a moth before my own mother had passed... not even knowing she had been sick. After I wrote it, my mother was diagnosed with leukemia and we lost her 4 days later. With much more truth to this story, I had to edit it and finish it for a school assignment... I did very minimal, and it was the hardest editing I have ever done. I am quite pleased with this story, and really like it. I just find it so odd how I somehow knew wat was to happen, before it did. I did however talk to my mother, not as often as I would have liked, but I did talk to her, unlike in my story. But if you do read this, please remember it is fiction.




The clock echoed, tick tock. It seemed to be growing much louder every minute. The letter had to be finished soon, and I had not even started. I sank deep into the cushions of the couch, a fixture like a decorative pillow. The remains of last nights fast food still tempted my nose to get up, do something else. Tick, tock. The clock was the unwelcome reminder that time was running out, the image of an hourglass flashed into my mind but I refused to look up at the telling face.
I had been given ample time, and yet my body sat tense waiting for news that may never come. I knew it needed to be done, but instead I sat, writing and rewriting, not liking anything that decorated the page.
The idea of not doing it had crossed my mind many times but now it seemed to come back even more insistently, but I knew I would feel better if I would just write it.
Tick tock.
Why had this letter been so hard to write? I had known since I told she was no longer welcome at my house I was going to write it. It was time to give her my reasons. I had made my choices. She needed to trust my judgement, and trust how she had raised me. But if I wanted to write it, it had to be now.
“Wow, have you been working on this all night?” He was usually encouraging, except when it took time away from him and his plans.
“Yes, but I think I am finally able to say what I need to” I quickly erased the tear that had slipped out of the corner of my eye, hoping he didn’t notice, but of course he had.
“Is it really that hard?” he laughed at his joke, the forced laugh, the one that he did to make certain I knew he was teasing. He had always tried to make light of the situation, it was after all he who had been accused.
Then came the downpour. My emotions were never far, especially when I wanted them to be. I tried to wipe them away and just keep up with my letter, but it was too late, he now felt the need to play the sympathetic husband, a role he never did well, but he always tried to. He sat down and reached his arm around me.
The grandfather clock chimed. I could see it startled him, but just enough to give him an excuse to finish his pampering and go back to what he was previously doing, forcing me to get back to the letter.
I had been feeling the need to write her for a while now, I still didn’t care to talk to her, but I needed to write her. Make her understand.
It had been seven years since had talked to my mother. It had been my choice to stop communication, a decision I had regretted many times. Looking back it was the right choice, for myself and my family.
But now she was dying, the woman who I had once been so close to, sharing everything personal. She was there for the birth of all my children, helping out every chance she could . . . til she betrayed me.
I can still recall the day, spring saturated the air, working hard to do devour the frost bitten ground. We had been at the park, the first trip of the year. The kids were bundled, but layers kept appearing at my feet, the children insisting it was warm now. It was then my mother had chosen to tell me what she had done.
It had been the week previous, the knock on the door. The strangers, wanting to question my children, alone. Then the flood of questions. What had happened? Do we fight in front of the kids? How often are there arguments? As the questions sprayed me unexpectedly, my thoughts raced to find someone who would call. She had never crossed my mind.
I hadn’t even brought it up with her, embarrassed that someone would think that of my husband.
“I just wanted to make sure they were ok. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Still seven years later I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t have come to me first. But it had been long enough and I needed to have some closure.
The clock chimed again, and still I hadn’t written much more than the beginning. “Mom, I feel like I need to let you know why your actions had hurt me, so that we can start talking once again.” I reread it, deleteing more once again. How do you apologize for something you don’t regret? I knew I needed to, if something happened before I could apologize, I would never forgive myself.
I looked at the coffee table, and got up to clear the table tossing the remains of last nights dinner. It could have waited, but it gave me the necessary moment to reorganize my thoughts.
I went back to the imprint I had left in the couch, just as I was about to replace it I heard the kids stirring. I didn’t want them to see what I was working on. I never had told them the reason we avoided visiting grandma.
“Hurry up and get ready for school, you don’t want to be late!” I changed the screen on the computer. As I hurried my kids along, I got myself ready for the day, another stall tactic. I showered washing away the wasted night, preparing for a fresh start at the letter.
The children were out the door, I waved them on their way. As I came back into the house my husband was getting ready to leave, he leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Don’t over think it, the right things to say will come, and she will understand?”
I just smiled at him, words were unable to form as I pushed the tears back as best I could.
He left. The door clinked shut just as the clock chimed, and I became aware once again of the continuous ticking.
Tick, tock.
I sat down preparing once again to take on the letter. As the page returned, I felt my hands glide over the keys. The words seemed to finally have found me.
I stood up and called the hospital to verify the room number. The tick from the clock seemed to drown out the elevator music on the other end of the line. At some point I think I counted 57 ticks. The voice on the other line shook a little with hesitation. I hung up the phone, and once again occupied the well-worn sofa. I had been too late. She had passed late last night. Random tears escaped from the creases in my tired eyes.
I don’t remember hearing the clock.