The sky was already in mourning.
A dreadfully dreary day.
An emerald leaf crying outside of the window.
The number on the clock had not—no would not—move. I was stuck at 4:52.
Time is a cruel master.
When you want it to go faster, it flows as fast as honey.
When you want to savor a moment,
to just slow down,
seconds become minutes,
minutes become hours,
hours become days.
But, now, time is stopped.
I hate the number 4.
It’s as though it decides to mock me the clock.
4:54.
I had been waiting for 4 months.
4 months of waiting,
listening to the clock slowly tick by
the weeks,
the days,
the hours,
the minutes.
Straining to hear the annoying,
monotone,
AOL voice to say “You’ve got mail.”
The one time I actually want to hear it, he stays silent.
A minutes flies by as I have a staring contest with the “Inbox” icon on the blue screen.
4:59.
As though it’s New Year’s Eve, I am counting down the seconds.
10, the numbers that were once were mere moments in time, suddenly became frozen hours of time.
9, the colon between the 4 and the 59 blinking in unison to an unheard beat.
8, rain drops beat against the window.
7, Are they crying for me already?
6, just breathe.
5, honestly? The last thing I can do is breathe.
4, that dreaded number again.
3, hand poised on the mouse, waiting.
2, moving it toward the little mailbox that holds my future.
1, finally...