Time

A Race Against Time by Gail Sauter

I sit alone in my isolated room and it’s quiet outside but for the occasional sound of metal hitting metal as someone attempts to cook in the kitchen. It’s silent otherwise—and oh the sound of silence can be so intoxicating. But then it begins. The buzz, the sound of water pouring from heaven. Accentuating, not disrupting, the intoxicating silence.

When it rains, some people envision hot tea and cutlets or a mug of coffee with a warm brownie. Not me. When it rains, I think about the times we were together, when we didn’t have the money to have two umbrellas (it was more romantic that way), when had to go out to get dinner. We wouldn’t go one by one—it’s too romantically unfair to go out alone on a rainy Sunday evening. We would go out with one umbrella; empty streets, people staring and wondering what was wrong with us dawdling in the rain. We knew what was wrong with us: we were in love. We still are. I wish you were here right now, so I could hold your hand and jump in the puddles like a little girl again!

I sit in my room looking at the translucent glass of the windows and the scenes from the past return with every drop that forms ripples on the windowsill. I’m confused about how I feel; happy to remember everything or sad to miss it now. But I know what you would say to me if you were here.

Imagine and keep a stock, we’ll make it happen. We have our entire lives together.

I will wait and pull through. I’m in love, after all.