The Wilky

Today I thought about getting a jamba juice from the Wilky, but then I remembered I did not grow up in the sixties and probably didn't have rights to call it that, so instead I made pancakes and ran to work with my hair still wet.

Mornings are such interesting things in the way they change from day to day, but always hold a place in my heart. The hardest thing about mornings is getting them to start. They're quite quick once they actually get going, but you always have to poke and prod and yell in their ears to get them from those high beds in the sky. We used to try to lure them down with sleepy eyed children to tease and lawn sprinklers to run through, but after time these just weren't incentive enough. So now we scream and yell, waking up hoarse in our efforts to get the morning to come. Finally the morning beams will stream through your window, ignoring your curtains and creeping along the sidewalk stunning runners and sleeping reptiles.

And although time is consistent, the clocks are not. Once I saw three hours pass in a minute and I felt my heart beat quicken with it. I had to reach up and hold the hands that determined my fate in order to calm their nervous fit. But just the next day the clock wouldn't budge. I watched it all day, but not a single second passed. Instead it sat taunting me, teasing me, telling me I would never leave. But I am always where I am, which testifies that time is always now, in the moment, when I am writing this, when you are reading it, it's all the same time. Time doesn't pass or fall behind, it's always there, stapled to your side like a Wal-Mart greeting and never leaving you alone. Time is the child that whispers its secrets in your ear like a buzzing fly and although you swat and swat it never goes away.