Time: A Narrative Reflection

Bill walked through the corridors hastily, strapping the bag across his frail shoulders.  He imagined what the crowd would say when he arrived: the parted forced smiles, the sighs, and the unbeknownst smirks. Well, he was late again! And what could he do, or what could he say? Bill told himself to cheer up. He picked up a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow.

Sheila was the first to greet him. Her sympathetic smile withered a little bit, as she started to realize that Bill had not come with any gift whatsoever. Well, typical Bill, she thought, as she tried to forget that Bill was the most important person in the party.

“Bill, you know this is a very important day for you. Why didn’t you bring anything? So much as flowers, a card, or perhaps a box of chocolates? I mean, this is the last day for you do be late?”

Bill lingered at the front steps for a while and stifled a groan.

“The way I see it, Sheila, is that the world needs me to be this way. If everyone were so damn on time, there would be absolute pandemonium. Think about all the riots that would happen as people compete to be the earliest to enter the stores in the mornings; the earliest to be in church; the earliest to be at the party. And those poor hosts…”

Sheila shook her head in disbelief. “Those poor hosts? What is so ‘poor’ about hosts who have guests that are always on time? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

“Wonderful, you say? Are you serious? The hosts would be scrambling to put the food on the table because all these guests are coming on time. And they would be so stressed, realizing that they have to greet each and every one, and somehow thank them all for being on time.”

Bill cringed, balking at the thought of all the guests who are on time. And deep within, he reflected that there must be some ulterior motive for everyone’s being on time: maybe in expectation of a heavenly reward, or a gift, or even some paltry recognition. To try to be on time all the time must have some catch to it. After all, what did people really want, to come to a place at a scheduled time?

John, the local pastor at the church, suddenly recognized Bill and strode forward, extending his clammy palm.

“Bill, it’s so great that you finally made it. I was overhearing your conversation with Sheila, and I thought: I am only so happy to receive you whenever you come. After all, it’s not the exact time that counts, but it’s the heart with which you come to the party that is so crucial. After all, we are not keeping track around here.”

Bill could see a slight discomfort in Sheila’s face, as though taken aback by John’s strident confidence. She shook her head and crossed her arms.

“John, no offence, but do you really think that nobody keeps track of the time around here?”

Sheila pointed to the clock on the far end of the church: a large gothic style grandfather clock. Apparently it had once been a cuckoo clock, but someone had taped up the cuckoo door and rigged the sound so that there was no cuckoo sound to be found.

John nodded. “I know that we have watches, we have clocks, and we have cellphones. But Sheila, honestly, these things are just temporary measures. I mean, they don’t measure a person’s life or the quality of one’s existence. Why put so much faith in time, as though it were the objective measure for a person’s achievements or success?”

            Sheila glanced down at her own watch, a quizzical expression forming on her face.

            "If people didn’t have time, how could they accomplish anything? Heck, how would we even know that we would need to be here to begin with? We couldn’t even know where to meet, when to meet, and what the expectation is.”

                John laughed heartily. “Sheila, have you no faith that you would somehow order your life even in the absence of such technological marvels as watches or clocks? How do you think people did it in antiquity? People knew when it was important to gather and share, simply because it felt important, and it was a shared experience. If people were only bound by mathematical instruments, would there not be a total chaos in the world? Why do we take the measure to be the real person, the real mind?”

                Bill listened intently to both sides, and quietly wondered whether both were not secretly right. After all, isn’t time simply a human invention? Wouldn’t it be safe to say that the clock is simply a way to conveniently help people to be on time? Bill reflected on all the times when he didn’t have the heart to go somewhere, but it was somehow necessary for him to be on time. The trip to the dentist was one such example. Bill swished his tongue over his mouth, realizing that he had not felt his teeth for quite a long while.

                The clock struck 12 pm, and the cuckoo’s voice petered into a garbled moan. All the church leaders gathered to the front of the pulpit, while the various onlookers took their seats. Bill suddenly knew that it was truly his time.

                He strode forward to the coffin at the front of the church and peered down at the face. A familiar face, no doubt: the face that was in the mirror every morning, for the past fifty seven years.

                As John presented the final parting words, Bill sighed, realizing that he had been true to his style to the very end. Indeed, Bill had been late for his own funeral.