When I was 6 years old, I would tell the time using the microwave clock perched on a high shelf adjacent to the kitchen counter. Whenever it read a bright, blue-green fluorescent 8:00 during the night meant that it was bed time. I couldn’t imagine a time more late.
As I stared at the clock yonder, sometimes I’d imagine the world post-8PM as nothing but frank darkness, the entire world frozen in time. That is, until the first of the Sun’s rays tickles the eyes of the magpie whose song wakens the world to a new day.
It wasn’t until my grandfather’s passing that year did I realise the reality. I remember all these relatives at my house during the wake, grieving, laughing, sharing stories, grieving again, laughing again. Deeper and deeper into the night they went as my tired eyes caught a flicker in their periphery. I looked up, 9:27. Then again at 11:08, and finally at 01:30.
My little brain couldn’t comprehend the novelty of time existing beyond 8PM. Does this only happen when someone dies? How does the clock know to keep going? Why is it still light in here? Incidentally, the years went on and I eventually learned the use of time-keeping devices, but that cognizance of time continuing with business as usual stayed with me. It was among the first life lessons I learned through raw observation and self-reflection, strange as it sounds - that time simply goes on.
Right now at 24 years old, I lie in bed facing a large wrought iron clock on the wall, contemplating the start of my third year in medical school. It’s 11:27PM and I lament that this may be among the earliest bed times of the year.
But as my reIatives showed my younger self in the midst of an objectively sad time, I realize that no matter what happens, among the trials and challenges, the unpredictability, the times of sadness and grief, the clock will keep ticking, and life will go on.
To me, nothing is more reassuring than that constance, and I will always find true comfort in that.
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