literature

Like Water Through Your Hands

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It only took a moment, I was told.
I hated it when they left it open-ended like that. I’d ask, How many seconds is that? How long, exactly, is a moment? The lack of precision was an insult; a moment can’t be measured.
But people wouldn’t understand, and they’d only look at me with pity in their condescending eyes. It depends, they’d say. But it was very fast and it was painless. An instantaneous death.


It is one year later, May 22nd, 1:31 in the afternoon, a Tuesday. I am sixteen years old. I haven’t been in the Janss for twenty-five days less than a year, and I don’t remember a thing about these streets. I’ve been running for seventy-three minutes.
I don’t know how I got onto the sidewalk. I was in school like normal, following the pace of the crowd, watching the clock, when a cloud of formaldehyde wafted into my face as I walked pass the science lab. And the next thing I knew I was running.
Half of me screams that I left my bag behind with my cell phone in it, that I was lost, and that I should probably return before my guardians freak out and call the police. But I keep running.
The Janss is a quiet place, not that many cars. It must be very nice on a good day. There are fresh green lawns, flowers, and trees wedged into every crack in the concrete, and they’re shriveling like prunes in the afternoon heat. Sweat drips down my hair and stains the length of my shirt. A warm airflow breathes against my flushed face. The long rows of houses stare at me from behind their flat white faces, their windows dark.
I am utterly lost. I know it would probably be best to ask someone for directions, but what would I say? “I’m looking for the house I used to live in. I know it’s somewhere around the Janss. No, I don’t know which street. But it’s the kind of house that you’d forget two days after moving away, the kind that doesn’t matter because it has nothing of you inside, the kind that time quickly sweeps away.”
I laugh in my head—my lungs ache too much to show it on my face. I keep running.
A flash like the sun. Cherry red. In the middle of an intersection I lurch to a stop.
The compact red sedan screeches past three inches in front of my toes. It sways to the left, tires skidding, and veers viciously into a brick red driveway. The passenger door opens before it reaches a complete stop.
“Adam!”
A boy jerks out of the car, his hand on the frame like he wants to tear it off its hinges. He slams the door shut. “Watch the road!” he yells at the car furiously.
A woman emerges from the driver’s seat and snaps, “Is that how you’re supposed to talk to your mother!?”
“I’ll say what I need to say!” He takes long forceful strides to the door of the house and grabs the handle, but it’s locked. He curses.
“Adam!” The woman clips on polished, ruby high-heeled shoes toward the door. “That was disrespectful and shameless! Who raised you!? Who poured her sweat and blood out for you!? What have I done to deserve this kind of attitude!?” And then she glances my way and pauses.
I’m bent forward, motionless, my hands clutching my thighs, gasping for breath. I can hear my pulse thundering in my ears.
Dimly, I hear the woman call, “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I want to say, but the “I” gets tangled in my throat. I swallow. A cold slow fear has begun eating away at my stomach, and I close my eyes, my mind grasping for support.
“I’m so sorry about that…” She steps closer. “Are you hurt?”
My knees buckle.


My father had a thin, tired voice, drawn tight by too many tails in the ash tray. His stern face had a permanent stubble and he smelled like formaldehyde. In the spare gaps between work, he would teach me all the most important lessons of life, and I would listen to his words with the eagerness of a rock.
“Time is like water and like the desert,” he would always say to me as I squirmed in his arms—or, when I was older, as I scrolled through texts on my phone. “Drops of water, one by one, form the sea; grains of sand, piled high, form the desert. In the same way, each second adds up, until eventually they form a lifetime. Don’t waste a single one. Spend too many pennies and you could go bankrupt.”
“Don’t bring my allowance into this,” was all I’d say.


I count the seconds. 1. 2. 3. 4.
“Oh my God!” The woman rushes to me and grabs my arm. “I’m so sorry! Where did you get hit?”
I have to respond to her. 5. 6. 7. “No, it’s not the car. I—” I swallow again “—it’s fine. Just tired. Running.” The words dry up in my throat and come out like sandpaper.
“Oh.” She breathes out, relieved.
8. 9. 10. 11. 12. My pulse relaxes slowly. I open my eyes.
“Well, can you stand?” the woman asks, her face hovering in front of me anxiously.
I can. But my legs are still quivering, and she notices.
“You look exhausted. Were you headed somewhere nearby?”
I shake my head.
“I can’t let you walk that far.”
The boy has slowly edged closer, but he stays a careful five feet away. “Just leave it, Mom,” he mutters, his eyes turned down towards his phone.
“Adam!” she gasps, appalled.
“She isn’t asking for any of this, is she?” He glances up at me angrily before turning away again.
“Honestly, Adam, these sorts of things shouldn’t need to be asked!” She studies my face and says, “You know what, I’ll get you some water. Come into the house and sit down.”
“Mom—”
“Don’t argue with me! It’s only for a moment.”
I feel no desire to protest. Just a consuming numbness. I let her lead me into the house and to the kitchen table, where I crumple into a chair. The boy follows five feet behind, then stands in the far corner, disguising his unease with a casual slouch and his phone.
His mother takes a tall glass from a rack. “You were out running, you said? But what for? It’s so hot out!”
I lick my lips. The rough surface scrapes against my tongue. “I was looking for something. But it’s fine, I’ve given up. It no longer exists, anyways.”
She looks at me curiously. The running water sounds like luxury and waterfalls. “Well, anyways, I apologize for almost hitting you with the car. Adam and I were having an argument—”
His head jerks up. “So now it’s my fault!?”
“I said it’s our fault for not paying attention to the road. I’m so sorry. We must be annoying you with our constant fighting, aren’t we.” She hands me the glass, and I press my fingers against its cool surface.
“No, it’s fine.” It does annoy me, actually. I’m jealous. “It’s good that you talk to each other so much. My father only ever talked about one thing, and I never listened.”
“Really?” She looks interested. “What did he talk about?”
“Time.”
The boy scoffs, then quickly looks down at his phone again.
“Adam,” his mother threatens.
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “It’s not an interesting topic. Besides, none of his preaching did any good, because he ended up as dead as anyone else and left behind even less.”
The room seems to freeze.
I lick my lips and they crack, bleeding. “Don’t apologize. That car hit him, and your car missed me, and that’s all. It happened too fast for me to count the seconds.”
The water looks like a crystal pillar in my hand. I tilt it to my lips.


One year ago, May 22nd, 5:22 a.m. It was the last conversation I had with my father. I was half asleep, just waking up, and he was leaving for work just like any other day. He always said goodbye to me. Something like, “I left your breakfast in the fridge.”
It was so commonplace I didn’t even listen.
According to the evidence, the accident happened at 5:52 a.m. His car crumpled like aluminum foil. I was the last person he had spoken to. I knew all the numbers; I even remember it was a Thursday.
And then they tell me it took “a moment.”
One moment for the ocean of his life to evaporate. One moment to break every last one of his hopes, dreams, promises. One moment for him to abandon me.
I stopped thinking about the future after that. I just wanted to be sure about the past, and since I couldn’t remember what he said I had to quantify it. Measure it to the second. Be precise and unwavering. I thought going home would help me remember something, but it turned out to be just a waste of time.


I drain the whole glass of water in one breath, suddenly desperate with thirst. How many hours have I gone without drinking anything? It must have been an eternity.
“Slowly.” She puts a hand on my back.
I put down the empty glass and choke, “I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?” she asks quietly, pained.
I put my face in my hands and just breathe, listening to my heartbeat. When I feel that my legs are strong enough to walk again I look up.
“What time is it?”
The boy glances at his phone. “Past two.”
“Already?” I’m surprised. I’ve never lost track of time before. “I’d better get back.”
“But you need to rest,” his mother says. “You can stay a little longer.”
“No, it’s alright. Thank you.” I’m rushing all of a sudden; I can’t stand still anymore.
“Take—take care!” she calls after me.
Out the door, on the street, I look back at them for a moment. They’re both standing in the doorway. And the boy drops his phone to his side and says, urgently, “—Mom!”
She looks at him serenely.
“I didn’t really mean to, to hurt you or anything. Mom, I…”
“Shh,” she says, and kisses him on the forehead. “You know how much I love you.”
And I turn to look at the road and it comes to me—the memory.


We’re just sitting together, talking. And the tense lines of his face break and crease like soft leather. He laughs.
“You’re right, what am I saying? Time isn’t money. It can’t be measured with numbers and it’s much, much more precious. Most of your life it will go by unnoticed. But there are moments that can change everything, for better or for worse, and these—these moments last.”
revised version of The Iron Clock [link] on the prompt "The Magic of a Moment". for the PTA Reflections contest <3

feedback is much appreciated

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edit: I edited the edited version, yes I did. ugh. I can't believe I just made three drafts of the same thing in (basically) five days. I'm glad it ended up where it is now, though.
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Aurora66's avatar
nice story. i like the theme of time :)