My memories of life before age ten come in fragments.
The same fragment comes to me each time I stare at a clock.
Second grade. Ms. Hildebrand's class. Story time on the floor.
My eyes were glued to the clock, mystified that minutes passed but I couldn't see the big hand move.
I wanted to see the big hand move.
Today, I see the big hand move.
I know time.
I know its tricks.
I know how it works.
Yet still, I am mystified.
I don't want to see the big hand move.