The Touch of Time

The hands on the clock tick idly by as the final daylight hours fade into the dreaded night. I stand by the window, watching the chilling snow litter the paths and lie upon the trees in a false canopy of white, cruelly mimicking their green summer leaves. The barrenness of winter makes it hard to believe that this town once bathed in the warmth of summer.
A couple, arm in arm, brave the cold streets. Presumably they are on their way home. My eye is drawn to the woman, wrapped in her black furs on which time has made its mark; turning the hairs silver and coarse: Like her own hair, which was once a glossy brown but now is stained with grey.
Her companion appears older in years, but that is common among those who have survived the war. Many never recovered from its violent battles, or the shock of a bomb blowing up everything just a few feet away, or watching a friend shot right by their side, or a beloved son die in their arms. These burdens show on the premature lines engraved on this man’s face, in the shadow of grief in this woman’s grey eyes.
This makes me ponder on the fragility of beauty and life. The horrors of war sent many young, handsome men to a violent death that changed their claim on beauty into something of unbearable sight. And if death did not come in their prime, then their beauty of youth fades away into the old sages that time creates, with no monument to recall their names.
Such are the wastes of time we are, I muse bitterly, as with one violent stoke I pull the curtain over the windowpane, to block out the dismal scene. In my youth I had forsook my taut skin and unblemished waves of hair. Even my lover’s beauty faded with the days. And now only through my children can I see my youth; untainted by the cruel passage of time.

The Touch of Time


Joined December 2007

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