Lost Time

She was Space herself, the first room to which we could attach any signs. All other places were rearrangements of this first order. And Time, as we knew him where she held us, never marched. As our teachers tried to tell us he was doing.

“Where would he go?” she said, “It’s all here.”

“Yes, but where is Time?” we would insist, suspecting that he had walked off with one of our toys in his pocket again.

“Well,” Space would sigh, “where did you see him last? Go there. You know how he repeats himself.”

“But I was just there!” 

“Child. He’s been doing it forever. Now go back there and wait.”

“But we have!”

“Yes, and?”

“Well, what time is it now?”

She would wait a perfect beat and then look up like she was squinting at the weather. “Looks like eternity to me.”

“You always say that!”

We wanted Real Time. “You know,” we tried to tell her, “Departure! Progression, Arrival!” The Time of History.

“Whelp. I don’t know about that.” She had a way of raising an eyebrow whenever she caught us saying something lamentably predictable. “But I do know there’s a surprise happening.”

“When?!”

“What do you mean, when? It’s here now. I set it down when you were pestering me about progress. Now, help me look!”