The River of Hours

Dust motes caught in a sunbeam

Time is a river, they say,
but no — it’s not that simple.
It’s a river that flows backward and forward,
pooling in eddies of memory,
rushing in torrents toward futures we can’t yet see.
I dip my hands into its currents
and feel the coolness of yesterday,
the warmth of tomorrow,
and the sharp sting of now.

When I was young,
time was a straight road, stretching endlessly ahead.
I ran down it, breathless,
chasing dreams that shimmered like mirages.
The days were long then,
endless summers where the sun hung heavy in the sky,
and the nights were filled with fireflies and laughter.
But now, the road has folded in on itself,
twisting into a labyrinth of moments I can’t quite retrace.

I think of my mother,
her hands kneading dough in the kitchen,
flour dusting her apron like snow.
She used to say, “Time is a thief,”
but I didn’t understand then.
Now I see it,
the way it steals the color from her hair,
the strength from her voice,
the light from her eyes.
And yet, it gives too.
It gives wisdom,
though sometimes I wonder if the price was too high.

The clock on the wall ticks,
a metronome marking the rhythm of my life.
Each tick is a heartbeat,
a breath,
a step closer to the edge of something I can’t name.
But time isn’t just a countdown;
it’s a mosaic.
The shards of my past,
the first kiss,
the last goodbye,
the quiet mornings and the stormy nights
are pieced together into a picture I’m still learning to understand.

I watch the children playing in the park,
their laughter ringing like bells.
To them, time is a playground,
a place of infinite possibilities.
They don’t see the shadows lengthening,
the seasons turning,
the way the years will one day weigh on their shoulders.
But perhaps that’s the gift of youth,
the ability to live unburdened by the weight of hours.

And then there are the trees,
their roots deep in the earth,
their branches reaching for the sky.
They measure time in rings,
each one a story of drought and rain,
of storms endured and sunlight savored.
They don’t rush or fret;
they simply grow,
patient and steady,
a reminder that time is not just something to be spent
but something to be lived.

I sit here, on this bench,
feeling the sun on my face
and the breeze in my hair.
The river of hours flows around me,
carrying with it the echoes of all that has been
and the whispers of all that will be.
I don’t know where it’s taking me,
but I’ve learned to trust its currents.
After all, time is not just a thief or a teacher,
it’s a companion,
walking beside me,
step by step,
until the road ends
and the journey begins anew.