The Minute HandA Story by CeeGeeYou know that moment when the minute hand pauses?She used to be respected. Or maybe she was just noticed. Like, people looked her way and thought to themselves, “damn,
she’s got it together.” They would gaze for a few moments longer. They never
understood why, though. She was just another girl on a giant college campus. She
wasn’t outstandingly beautiful, nor did she go out of her way to even be
noticed. But they didn’t look elsewhere right away, for some reason or another.Things
like that, they just kind of happen. Like when you just happen to be glancing
at the clock the very second it hops to the next line down. It’s never a gradual movement, the shifting of the clock
hand. The minute hand jumps spastically, as if every sixty seconds a crinkly
old lady with a twine-doll and a needle stabbed the minute hand into action. And
when you were lucky enough to see that motion, that hop to the next minute in
time, it’s somehow a huge moment. Somehow, you just witnessed time pass, right
before your innocent eyes. That simple, shy movement is something so much
bigger when you actually sit down to think about it. The last time I saw the minute hand move, I remember
thinking to myself how rare it was to see that. And maybe I just don’t notice
it unless I happen to be staring at the break room clock trying to figure out
exactly how wrong the time is- But it’s also unsettling. Another minute has passed, and you
spent the last five seconds or so preparing to witness something so miniscule
and gigantic, something so paradoxical that trying to grasp the words to define
this moment is harder than telling someone what breathing is like- The second hand, though, glides smoothly around the clock
face like a ballerina on the pedestal of your childhood music box- that is,
before you spent too many hours trying to watch the exact moment she sprang to
life. The second hand is calm, and the second hand soothes. You can always
count on the second hand to carry you into the next minute or hour or whatever.
Remember how the clock in you most hated high school class
seemed so slow? How every time you looked at it, hoping that enough time had
passed that you could actually get excited to break down the door and back into
the hallway where your boyfriend was waiting for you just a few doors down? Remember how the minute hand would get stuck just before
noon? It would pause right at the top, too weary to make the transition to the
latter half of the day, just needing some time to catch its breath. Then it
would suddenly skip to 12:01 and somehow, somehow, you just sat through two
minutes worth of time in one? Like a two for one deal on time, except you
supremely got suckered into losing a precious minute of your day. I mean, you
were sitting in English lit anyway and let’s be real, this essay wasn’t
happening to begin with. It was a moment that was so overlooked at the time, that
pause in time. Of course, only the minute hand had to take a rest. The trusty
little red second hand chugged on like the hare lapping the tortoise because
that’s what it was supposed to do- the second hand has no choice but to keep on
moving, to keep spinning around the clock face and making sure our lives were
right on schedule. Because the minute hand paused at 11:59. And the second hand
never quits. So much of your life was dictated by these two thin strips
of metal, or plastic, or whatever the f**k clock hands are made of. You were
always on time for the next part of life as long as the second hand kept its
promise to you, to your classmates, to the whole damn world. That pause, at 11:59. What if the minute hand had never recovered?
What if it permanently stopped right before noon, too weak to make that leap
into the future? It would seem like an insignificant moment suddenly
crystallized into history-this death of the minute hand is important. It
matters. You can’t stop staring at it, you wonder if it will be 11:59 forever,
you wonder if time will stop for good. The second hand carries the burden of two now. The only way
to accurately read the time is to always keep an eye on the second hand-or two,
if you’re truly dedicated to knowing the time- and when it hits you that the
minute hand will never recover, you don’t care anymore. You zone out, your
teacher murmurs passages from some lame book and you start to drift off.. The girl you were gazing at on your college campus has
noticed you staring at her. She hesitates for a moment, as if she recognizes
you. But no. No sense of who you are. As she turns to walk onto the next part of her day, you
wonder if her life has paused at 11:59. You wonder who she is, what she does,
what happened to her that made her minute hand die- You wonder why you care. You carry on with your life. And your minute hand jumps, suddenly awake. © 2014 CeeGee |
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2 Reviews Added on April 16, 2014 Last Updated on April 16, 2014 |