The Hours

Hour Glass This month, we start Daylight Savings Time, an odd practice, which begins with the “loss” of an hour. Sixty minutes. The long or short of it depends much on one’s vantage point.

My son is a missionary who works at an orphanage caring for children and teaching English. I’ve supported mission work. I think I like it better when other peoples’ children live so far from home with people I don’t know speaking a language I don’t understand.

My child…okay, so he’s an adult; he’s still my child. When he is on his way back, the weeks, days, seem like a long time, and the last hour is FOREVER. Then, the plane lands and he is home, a saint in the Who Dat Nation.

He visits with friends, does his work. We talk, visit a little. I don’t see him often. We’re content. We know the other isn’t that far away. But, time is tick, ticking away. Then the final day. The last hour is like sand then liquid slipping through my fingers. Too soon, he’s headed back to that other place where I’m convinced people await what is for them a too slow arrival of a plane.

If you had one more hour of marriage, or with your parents, siblings, in the hour left, before it’s lost, what are the final things you want to say? Tick tock...You still
can. Hola.