Reflections on Time Emma DiValentino
In the warmer months, my grandfather, belovedly called Poppy, spends his nights in silence on the back porch watching the sun go down. The moment dinner ends, he sends his partner and I back into the house. One night last summer I said to him, “What if I want to stay?” He stared at me with a pensive, stunned look on his face. His partner interrupted, “He likes to sit out here and think.” So, I asked him what he thinks about sitting there for hours alone with nothing but a small leather journal and pen to keep him company. He simply stated, “Everything,” and waved me away. My poppy has spent years of his life excruciatingly aware of a ticking clock. Born into an Irish Catholic family, his parents were tightlipped about most things, and he’s chosen to continue that practice. So, he journals alone watching the sun go down on the day, immersing himself in moments of peaceful silence as time slips by. I’ve only just turned eighteen this past October. Despite the legal ramifications of turning eighteen, my age still bears the word “teen”, declaring me not yet qualified enough to be labeled an adult. Being eighteen has instilled a fear of adulthood in me that I hadn’t noticed before. Buried under piles of schoolwork and the busy rush of D.C., my brain hadn’t slowed down enough to acknowledge and properly
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grieve the loss of my childhood. But, now I’m home on winter break for three weeks with no routine and not much to do in my little town, so I spend my days crocheting, reading, driving around aimlessly, and thinking. I celebrated my birthday away from home, so I’ve only now claimed my inheritance: my own ticking clock. For me, it’s the lonesome antique time recorder clock in my grandmother’s house. One that once in its great height loomed over me with its watchful, omniscient tick…tick…tick…. I used to love that clock. Spending hours pulling the brass handle for it to release a clamor of dings and dongs. It’s a miracle I didn’t drive my grandmother mad. Now, that clock sits heavy inside me like an anchor. Sending shock waves to my brain of “Am I wasting my time?” “What should I be doing?” and an awareness of my loved ones’ mortality that could make the sun shiver. I worry about the consequences of growing up- of losing the ones that knew me before I was aware of my own existence, of losing the sense of “home” in my hometown, of sharing a life with a painfully unhumorous roommate and their unrelenting tick…tick…tick…
