Time passes, we say: like a football, a parade, a ship in the night. Time flies: like a bird, a plane, like Superman. Time flows: like a river, like sand, like blood. Time, we have been told, is a reef, a hand, a wheel, a gift. Time is avenger, devourers, destroyer, a subtle thief of youth. Time, we hope, heals all wounds.
We talk about spending time (like money), serving time (like dinner), doing time (like lunch). We talk about buying time *like a car, a refrigerator, a new pair of shoes), borrowing time (like a library book, a cup of sugar, an egg), stealing time (like hubcaps, third base, a kiss). At one time or another, we have all had time on our hands, time to squander, time to kill. Most often we say we are pressed for time: like a shirt, like grapes for wine, like a flower in a book, like a hand against a heart. Time, we say, has run out on us, like milk, luck, or an unfaithful spouse. So much time, we complain, is lost: like mittens, sheep, or souls.
“Some wounds never heal,” Mary said. “People should know that by now.”
Diane Schoemperlen, Our Lady of the Lost and Found