Sands

In a rare occurrence, the house is quiet except for the patter of kitty feet and the dull thump-and-whir of the laundry machines accomplishing my chores. The mister's Morning Man Meeting met early today, so he is away for the moment. Middle Child had Cross Country practice at 6:30, and the little one is still sleeping soundly. The house is my own, and there is no one waiting with a need, a want, just one question, or some such other seemingly small demand on the ever more illusive sands of time slipping through the hourglass of each day.
Those sands seem not to relate precisely to the hands on my watch or the electronic clock on the phone that sounds an alarm marking each scheduled blip on the calendar. The clocks and watches demand. The sands simply whisper in passing. This explains how days fraught with constant commitment can slip away until one discovers that a month or season has somehow escaped without notice. This must be the phenomenon my grandmothers warned me of as a child. They said time would pass more quickly, but that seemed like Crazy Talk. Until time began to pass more quickly.