The Giant Clock, It Tocks for Me

Imagine this hugely huge clock. See it? Got it?

Imagine that giant clock holds all the times of your life. It's the clock that has registered each second you've lived. It has seen every moment and measured it, added it, noted it down, recorded it, Swiss-like.

Kinda cool. Right? Or scary?

If that clock existed, would you leap upon the hour hand and turn it back a bit or a lot? Would you leap on to change things or just to relive them? Would you rewind to live better or to live time again, or both?

I'd do it, if I could -- damn straight, I would leap for the hour hand -- and this is (partly) how:

In 1975 at about 7:37 in the morning Pacific time: I would relive the car track Santa delivered.

In 1978 at about 3:15 EST: I would not head-butt my father in the balls.

In 1982 on Easter Sunday: I would not choose lavender overalls.

In 1982 on Easter Sunday: I would tell my mother sooner.

In 1986: I would have I ditched him once and for all.

In December, 1989: I would hold the hour hand in freeze-frame: I would ski forever, the way I looked then, the way I felt then, the way I was then: not a care, but for me and my skis. No heart-break, just muscles, the last of me as an athlete; the last time I would be fully alone.

In 1990, in June, at 6:37pm EST: I would relive his funny happiness. His joy. His sweetness. (I would never see it again.)

In 1992, sometime in July, at a small bar in Connecticut: I would hold the hour hand in full-stop again. I would keep that pitcher of beer cold forever; I would keep that plastic table cloth between us. I fell in love and I said it out loud.

April - June 1994: I would bring my grandmother with me, even though I hated trying on wedding dresses.

1995 February: I guess it had to happen, but I wish I never accused my father of the stupid things I did. I would stop time and breathe deeply and do it over: no silly words, just a swift kick to the 'nads.

Latter part of 1997 into all of 1998: Fast forward. Please, Sweet Clock: just skip all of it.

August 6, 1999, 11:13am EST: FREEZE. STOP TIME. She was born.

May 25, 2001, 3:25pm EST: Skip to...

May 25, 2001, 3:29pm EST: She breathes. FREEZE. STOP TIME.

2001 - 2004: I would hang on the hour hand, let it pass but slooowwweer.

March 8, 2004: I would welcome my mother in four seconds after he was born, not the twenty minutes before in which she must have thought that both of us might die.

2004-2008: Slooooowwww the clock again. They were so cute and chubby and hilarious and devious and delicious and I wished I could see them more the way that everyone else did. And as I did. When I was second-guessing myself. Or crying.

2008, not sure when: STOP CLOCK. Completely. Thank the Kid profusely for starting a blog for me. Really. Stop the clock. Throw him a party. He's gonna need it...

2008-right this minute: I hang on to the second hand and the minutes passing and I let the hours go. I write it down as best I can and read when I can and I find love and friendship far-flung and nearby and start to think that time is my friend and not an enemy and that maybe this clock is as close as I will ever get to really knowing anything. Anything. Anything that matters.

Tick.
Tock.
You gotta a clock?