Time
by Denny's Four AM

Dedicated to Denny, sorry it isn't much. I'm sure you'd agree with me: amateur
writing was much better in your day.
f. aces
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I remember 8 AM, with its morning cartoons. I remember radio broadcasts I
didn't fully understand, and news of abroad that seemed to mean so much to
everyone else.

I remember being driven places in the morning sun, and in the morning snow.  I
remember how clean and bright everything was, when even the slushiness of a
frozen mud puddle seemed...well...clean.

I remember 7 PM from college, when parties got started and the girls arrived -
all neat from their preparations, clustered around mirrors and with the
swishing of skirts - and the crisp sound of a first beer being opened by the
first guest. Things got fuzzier after, and the music got better, and there
seemed both more and fewer of my friends.

My friends back then...at 12 PM, that's when. With cut sandwiches and
conversation, loud proclamations which later became whispered defeats at a
company lunchroom.

Then it was 6 PM, coming home from work - starting a second life outside the
tie.  And it was finding someone, and getting married, which was 11 PM, and you
know what that meant.

And then it was babies, and that meant 1 AM, but that always seemed so short
when I think back on it.

But it was, then, it was always night. The days I don't remember except
accompanied with the scratching of pens and the mechanics of keys. It was night
because the sun began to tear down the sky the moment I got home, and things
slowly died as the night went by.

Like at the parties, then. They started at 7 PM, because everyone
had-kids-you-know and there were raunchy jokes again because
hey-the-kids-aren't-around, and maybe I drank a bit too much and told Donnie
what I really thought of him, but I wasn't angry really. 'Cause it was night,
and everything would be clear in the morning.

The morning...hah, no. It was 2 AM. 2 AM when people slip away in hospital
beds, and 2 AM when you find out from a phone call why your daughter wasn't
home before 10. It's always 2 AM when you're that age. When you're getting
older, right. Like that'll stop pretty soon and everything'll go back.

And they do go back, as it's 8 PM, now. 8 PM, when the kids aren't around
anymore but maybe they'll call, and some friends come over for just a little
while - a drink after work and to talk about what's new.  It's the assumption
of the young that nothing changes for the old, and it's just not true. No,
things change.

And then it's 3. 3 AM, 3 PM, it doesn't matter. It's 3, and it's been 3 for
hours, when nothing happens and the crickets chirp or the sun creeps across the
floor. Sunlight's back, but only half the time now because it's 3. It's always
3.  I remember last night's 3 quite well, as it crept around the house with
whispered steps. I remember it telling me that the book I'm reading is no good,
maybe a glass of water will help me sleep. And it's still 3 by the microwave
clock.

I remember the time from my youth - not your time, which is no good. You've got
your new clocks that you want to live by, you've got your new car you need to
go places in. No, I want my time back, I've got no use for yours. I want my 7
PM, I want my 6 AM, I want my noon. You can stuff your 3 o'clock, I'm fucking
tired of it.

It's no good.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Author: f. aces
Title: Time
Summary: For the curmudgeon fest, looking back on time.
Keywords: nosex
