She tells me it takes time, but what is time? The passing of moments that turn into hours that make up the days that stretch into weeks that fill up the months that linger as years?
It takes time to heal. I cut my arm once. It was on purpose. Deep enough to need stitches but I didn’t see a doctor. Instead I watched time pass. Time was red blood flowing Into slowly clotting drying blood Into stiff inflexible scab Into peeling, pusing dead skin Into pink jagged itchy new skin Into scar, also known as memory.
It takes time to forgive. My fingers run over that scar and time stands still as it rushes through my brain: Time is in my mind’s eye Four-year old me slipping on glasses for the first time, Seven-year old me slipping on glasses after they were slapped off and shattered, again, Twelve-year old me slipping on glasses after they were slapped off and shattered, again, Sixteen-year old me slipping on glasses after they were slapped off and shattered, again, Twenty-one-year old me slipping on glasses after they were shattered for the last time; I blink at the clock and see a life-time has passed in thirty seconds.
It takes time. And some days it feels like it was all such a very long time ago. And some days my heart seizes like it did at the moment it happened. It takes time; but what is time?