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, devourer, destroyer, a subtle thief of youth. Time, we hope, heal 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