For Thy Peace, My Soul

6.

The clock winds down and time runs out. The tocks hesitate a fraction after the ticks. The hands slow on their passage around the face. Each number taking longer and longer to reach. We fight that loathsome clock. We wind the coils until they nearly snap. Our hands shaking with desperation and fear.

Fear of the unknown. Fear of being forgotten. Fear of leaving everything we fought for, loved, cherished, valued, hoarded, and clung to. What shallow sort of self-preservation is this? Our families, if we’re lucky, will thumb through old photos and some great, great whomever will say, “Auntie, who was this?”

If we’re lucky.