He has come to visit me often. He has had much to teach me.
As a child, he would come and sit with me and laugh with joy as I played. Before leaving, he would point softly at the hourglass. I noticed that it was full and the sand seemed to drop slowly. It was fascinating to watch, but I didn't understand the meaning.
As a teen, I resented his appearance. All I wanted was for someone to show they cared. He would sit and see my pain. Suddenly, I would see a robin on my windowsill or the shadow of a leaf dance across the wall, and I would know I needed to be outside. I would look, and he would smile and point to the hourglass in a way that seemed oddly comforting.
When I was angry, he would sit beside me quietly, letting time pass as the anger dissipated. As always, before he left, he pointed to the hourglass.
As a soldier, there were moments when time flew by, and others when it appeared to stand still. No matter the moment, he was always there and always pointed to the hourglass before leaving. Others questioned how I knew he was there. Because the moments were marked when someone would be heard saying, "That took forever!" or "Wow! That went by fast!" No matter, I could always look and see him pointing to my hourglass and the sands of time flowing.
When I was married, stressed out, and lonely, he would come and sit with me. He seemed to be trying to tell me, "This too shall pass." Always, before leaving, he pointed to my hourglass, but when I looked, only one grain of sand seemed to fall at a time.
When raising children, the days seemed to pass so slowly, but the years flew by. I was never able to reconcile how time could hold two conflicting places in my heart.
There have been a few lovers where each day with them passed so quickly it was impossible to capture all the wonderful moments. Likewise, there have been those where time was turned into a prison. I learned that time filled with joy, love, laughter, and kindness was what I should seek.
One by one, the kids came to live with me, and with each sacrifice I watched another of my dreams disappear. With each tear I shed, Father Time would sit quietly until I had collected myself and then, as always, he would point to my hourglass. These were the only times I resented his bony finger.
Eventually, the burdens became too heavy, and my heart was too broken. I no longer cared about my hourglass, so I tried to break it. I awoke in the hospital; my suicide attempt had failed. My daughter sat next to my bed, and across the room sat Father Time. As he pointed to my hourglass, I saw the tears streaming down his cheeks, for I had tried to rob him of what time I had left.
Months later, as my daughter lay in her own hospital bed, the son she'd carried lost to a careless driver, I held her hand while she slept. Father Time was there. This time, when he pointed at my hourglass, he nodded towards my daughter and smiled. It was then understood that by cutting my own life short, I would not have been here, in this moment, when I was needed.
Now, in the twilight of my years, I see more and more of my friends and family pass, and it seems like he’s with me most every day. At each funeral and remembrance, he is there, sitting quietly as we mourn. When I look at him, he points to the casket where I see an empty hourglass lying on its side, no longer useful. When I look back, he points to my hourglass, smiles, and then he's gone again.
These moments cause me to think back to the foolish games and time wasted on people, things, and feelings that never mattered. When I remember these times, I sigh and, once again, see Father Time smiling and pointing to my hourglass, reminding me of the time I have left. I see the sands flowing more quickly, and there aren't nearly as many left to fall. Each moment becomes more precious.