Running out of time. That was the message she kept receiving. It came by text, by Zoom, by email, on Facebook, on Twitter. Oh that Tweet! “Are you settling?” it said.
And she responded into the void, “Yes.”
“Stop,” it said back, “you don’t have time for that. The clock is ticking.”
Well, she could totally ignore that. I mean, who has a clock that ticks? She’d mastered the art of distraction, or maybe it was more the art of, um, once this is done or, when summer begins, or, if it happens again then she’d know it was time.
And it did happen again. But she continued settling because the rose colored sun captured her as it came up each morning. Because just that morning the horses had greeted her, frost on the tips of their ears. Because the cow licked her hand looking for the treat she always carried. Because here, when she was the only human around, was home.
Still, the message kept repeating. “Have you reached out yet?” She didn’t reply to the text, kept the phone on mute as if that would silence it. “Are you joining me in Zoom?” Not today. If she counts the hours when home is hers, they go faster, so she doesn’t. She can stop them if she ignores the ticking texts, Tweets, Zooms. Unwilling to leave behind.
But there is still time, or maybe still. Time. But it still ticks and she knows. She hears. She settles.