Time is flying.
She is moving through time -
waist high in mud -
drenched in sludge -
which does not help her fears
of microbes-
and sneezes in buses
where viral bugs land on her face.

She travels backwards
in time
as another person,
not being able to remember
the details
of the moments she sees
captured - frozen -
in the slides she finds
covered with decades
of solidified dust.

She cannot make out
if the images
she examines are familiar.
Was the young woman happy ?
Was she pretty ?
Was she reckless with her time ?
Was she embracing her motherhood ?
Was she too tired from the man
and then the other ones ?
of dressing a certain part and
playing a theatrical role
of being casual
and running barefoot and free,
with great teeth and always
faking smiles,
and not enjoying the time ?

The time
of youth and being fancy free -
casual days of mango juices
and sunshine dripping forever
onto her fragile shoulders.

Time rests in photographs
in containers and boxes -
backwards time
erupts with a vengeance
at being disturbed -
her brain -
drained with multitudes of emotions
of guilts and astonishment
and perplexion and
some happiness
at encountering
the people and children who
come out of the grains and
pixels of photographic papers -

Time makes her stern
in ritual and routine.
She washes away many things -
many past tidbits of time -
she has stories -
buried in time vaults -
sunken in ocean depths
of her memories.

And now -
today -
what will she do with her time ?
some of the necessary -
she yearns for more excitement -
she looks at the time -
she has to get going
in slow motion
as time rushes around her .
like gushing river water.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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