Half a Page of Scribbled Lines
The alarm went off, like it goes off every morning, and it was, as it was on every one of those mornings, the most annoying sound ever heard. Each new day would sound all the sweeter from that moment forward.
It used to be a round-faced clock on the nightstand, decorated with famous mice or other icons of animated pop culture, and it would tick softly into the night like the warm memory of a mother's heart. Then it would ring the morning in mocking joy and little dins of honest laughter. Over the years it would be thrown against every wall in the room. It wore its dents with pride.
If the nightstand stands still and time blurs and flies around it, then the montage is full of irony. It is the changing of clocks and the changing of time, so different and so intertwined. Time is a tornado adjusted for daylight savings.
The round-faced clock turned dark and slim, the new face bright and red with angry numbers watching quietly in the night. Then that clock grew thinner still, and where once time stood watch a phone found rest, like a constant companion full of connections to a world also sleeping and random notifications from those that aren't. They echo through the night between bouts of sleepy, colorful commentary.
Then the alarm goes off, like it does every morning, and it is just as annoying as it always was, but far too expensive to throw.
The boys are spread wild and sleeping sound, oblivious to the timeline that has dropped me in their doorway. I am just one point of many on a day like many more, a victim of restraint and the safe side of promise, a father in a footnote.They are covered in discarded sheets, stretching dogs, and single strands of sunshine that could lead them anywhere.
I whisper a tune into the room, a silly song from a serious man, and where it lands the children stir. Rhymes fall into open yawns and the first wag of restless tails. The day will fall by rote, and I can feel the montage as it swirls around me.
Title taken from Pink Floyd's song "Time"