Little Voice

We are running out of “right nows” a little voice whispers. “Right now”she urges, more with the words themselves than the singsong of their delivery. Stout starfish hands reach out like a flashbulb. POP! With the wild abandon harnessed by children, she flings herself toward me. The silhouette of her sparkle crumbles quickly, though, leaving behind only shards of her color slipping over my mind.

Whether illusory or rooted by reality, the concept lingers. Now is what we’ve got. And now. Each particle of being here is one less than we had before. This realization is simple, proven by a continuum of biology; and yet, an irksome urgency to make time like origami; to fold it into myriad passages, kaleidoscopic with doubled nows, knocks at me.

Like a carousel, I’m on a seesaw ride, trying to make the nows pass quickly. Staring at my ceiling, filling the caverns of my insides with pills, passing my fingers over the golden gloss of my beloved canine until now fades. POOF! All at once, I think, I will be healthy. And conversely I am applying the brakes, pumping my foot frantically against the sifting hourglass. What if by the time I can mold this body into a home, the grains of now have washed out with the tide?

But what about now? The merry-go-round osculates, slows, again stymied by the little voice. In a language without words she imparts to me something like this: “Silly woman, you just want to be in the now with others in the now. Go,” she snaps her fingers, “make that now come.” Tossing her delicate head back like a filly, her fringed mane catches the breeze. Easy for you to say, I lament inside the jostling corners of my brain.
Arranging her button nose into a precocious visage, she scoots closer. “You’re never going to be a person who throws time away like candy wrappers. You are somebody who knows a time worthy of being savored. You take those minutes, roll them up, spread them out and keep them for the rest of your forever’s inside a frame.” I stare at her blankly, the tactile meaning of these observations escaping me.

“Go take pictures,” the singsong cadence of her soundless voice stripes like a banner across the revolving door that is me. And then she is gone.

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