“Nothing is more fast than a clock,” said my father’s drinking buddy and partner-in-crime, Frank. “No matter how fast you go, you cannot beat a clock.” I had dragged Elijah with me to Wichita, land of boring sprawl and ubiquitous construction barrels, over the weekend, and he was being a very good sport about it. We were sitting beneath a colorful parasol at my dad’s second favorite restaurant in town, Souper Salad (his very favorite being the home of the Crystal Ship). My dad and Frank were reminiscing over their engineering days, discussing politics, complaining about work, and in general, talking a lot of bull while we ate our heavily dressed salad and soggy pasta. Frank explained how tired he was, as every morning, he has to get up at exactly 2:48 to begin his day.
“Why not 2:50?” I asked.
“Those two minutes make all the difference,” offered Elijah.
“Not two, three minute,” said Frank. “I were supposed to get up at 2:45!”
Frank’s right; the clock will beat all of us to the finish line in the end. Time has flown by so quickly that I can’t even keep up with the present; I’m still busy processing the past.
