Jan. 10 Poem: When Time Flew

I remember the first time I heard time fly,

literally.

My parents had another argument.
The anger ebbing and flowing,
one remark followed by another,
a call and answer refrain that
my brother and I knew by heart.

We actually tapped out the rhythm
like we did with those 80s pop tunes on the radio:
"Take Me Home Tonight" and "Papa Don't Preach" were big hits
and we remixed them: and shouting along
as mom and dad belted our home's never-ending hits.

We got to the part with "...just like Ronnie said..."
and a giant crash interrupted our duet.
A heavy object landed with a THUD towards the front entrance,
tiny metal pieces clanged, spun, and rolled against the tiles.

I unlocked the bedroom door
and tiptoed down the hallway.
My mother's chest was heaving,
She was sobbing.
My father, with his back to the door and his gaze fixed on the floor,
was motionless.

Because my mother,
a gentle, kindhearted woman,
hoisted the ugly oak clock my father's parents bought them as an after-thought anniversary gift,
and threw it at him.
Maybe it was for all the time he wasted?
Maybe it was for all the time he missed with us while he was with "her"?
Maybe it was for all the loss she suffered with him?
Maybe it was for all she wanted back; all she could not retrieve?


She sent the thoughtless gift flying through the air with precision, and let it crash.
My mother discovered a hidden super power: she made time stand still,
but not before she gave it flight.

My father left without a word.



I remember hearing time fly
and understanding that it was possible.