Time has its peculiar ways, doesn’t it? One moment you think you have it figured out, and the next, it tick-tocks you back to the start of the race. I learned this the hard way, during a stretch where each second seemed intent on unraveling everything I clung to.
It started quietly enough—the way many storms do. The day seemed just as normal as any other. The coffee brewed in the kitchen, wafting its delicate aroma, filling in the spaces that silence left overnight. Sara, my wife, was multitasking, glancing at the clock every few minutes while getting the kids ready for school. Our lives blended into a rhythmic dance of predictability, full of mundane errands—grocery runs, laundry folding, and that never-ending work commute.
Then came the first skip. It was subtle, almost imperceptible. I remember standing in the living room with a cup in hand, looking at my reflection in the large bay window. The stillness of the image struck me. Hadn’t I just tipped the cup to my lips a moment before? Yet, there I was, staring blankly, feeling an odd déjà vu creeping up my neck. I shook it off, attributing it to a poor night’s sleep and went on with my day.
But time, persistent as it was, kept messing with me. Each day felt like I was reliving snippets of happenings already past, some recent, some dredged from deeper, darker pools of memory. It wasn’t just a feeling of numbness or going through the motions. It was more as if everything was stuck in some time-lapsed loop, replaying when I least expected it.
Sara noticed too. She’d catch me standing with a blank look in my eyes, stared at with both concern and sadness that only deepened with each inch lost to the chasm forming between us. Once, while holding a grocery list mid-aisle, crumpled and nearly slipping from my grasp, I felt another jerk—a familiar argument surfaced, one with harsh words thrown like reckless darts, leaving both of us wounded yet clinging to habit.
The oddest thing about these episodes was how vivid the feelings were—everything felt fresh, and that intensity refused to dim. The joy of our daughter’s birth, the warmth of her first grasp around my finger. Or the tight knot of my father’s hand on my shoulder, the good-bye neither of us wanted. Yet, of all these, it was the small, terrible moments that hurt the most—words spoken in haste, decisions made in stubbornness.
On evenings when the chill of loneliness pressed its cold fingers to my spine, I’d trace those well-trodden paths, moving through snapshots in my mind, trying desperately to alter the outcome by sheer will alone. It never worked. Time was mocking me, presenting me with the things I wished to change yet staying rigidly indifferent to my pleas and protests.
The constant backward marches became unbearable during a particular morning. Winter clung to the living room windows, frost etching intricate designs while the radio played softly, filling the silence. I returned to the now-familiar memory, a painful betrayal—Sara, her back turned as she confessed to sharing moments with someone else. Her regret couldn’t remove the words, nor the images playing in my mind over and over.
I tried to stay objective, to understand or at least believe our marriage had flaws deserving acknowledgment. We both made mistakes, perhaps too hurt or proud to mend the fractures before they widened into chasms. But each time her words resurfaced, each backward slip reminded me of my own inability to act, to speak, to change course. It was as if time wanted me to remain stagnant, rooted in the past, endlessly circling around the same grief.
My days blurred into each other, a jumble of unfinished sentences and meals had in solitude. Work became a succession of tasks completed on autopilot, my involvement peripheral at best. I started avoiding gatherings, concerned that even the sight of happiness mirrored in others might pull me further under the cruel tides of retrospection.
I knew something had to change. Time wouldn’t willingly give me back control, and so with resignation, I realized it was on me to take it. I chose to confront what moments handed me—a resolution to remember but not dwell, accept without pulling the scabs apart to bleed once more. In acknowledging that some things cannot be undone, I found the smallest kernel of peace within the chaos.
Slowly, days grew quieter. My despondency began to unravel into manageable threads, less of an entanglement that threatened to choke. I engaged with our children more, heard their laughter echo in my chest without the shadows of what came before casting doubts. Each act of random kindness, a conversation halted for a hug, marked progress in this new realm forged by persistence.
And so, I learnt a lesson that hindsight readily whispers but rarely shouts—living in what cannot be revised consumes the precious and irreplaceable now. While I remain cautious, knowing skips may revisit without warning, I choose now to hold firmly to the present, to stitch these fleeting moments into a seamless tapestry. Perhaps, that relentless march was not a trap but a reminder of resilience, teaching me how to let go while being firmly tethered to what truly matters.
In time, I hope to forgive fully, not just others but myself as well. To walk forward even as the echoes of yesterday follow, less as specters and more as cherished advisors, guiding each step with the humility of lessons learned. Because this is the time I’m given, and perhaps, time taught me how to treasure each fragment, devoid of burdens me it brought while reminding me to cherish what it cannot withhold—the ever-persistent heartbeat of now.
