The Writers Voice
The World's
Favourite Literary Website
The Concept of Time
by
Cori Gardner
It took all my
pride, dignity, and might – or at least the shreds
of what was spared of them – to not
look in my rear-view mirror. I was so afraid that
if I did, I would catch a fleeting glance of his
black
Jeep parked in the dirt driveway becoming more
inferior with every second I would keep my
watering eyes on it. So I just held my focus on the
dark grey pavement and the distracting hum of the
engine whispering something irrelevant I wasn’t
able to understand anyway. And possibly if I did
continue to look straight ahead, keeping my eyes on
the infinite water that grew farther and farther
away, I could start the first step of Jaime as a
person, instead of ScottandJaime.
Scott and I were together my entire freshman and
sophomore years; his tenth and eleventh. “I need
time as a single person” were his exact words,
still bouncing around inside my head trying to
register in my mind, said only about fifteen
minutes ago.
I had awoken earlier that Friday morning of the
summer conjoining my sophomore to junior year to
find my dad standing next to the kitchen window, looking out, obviously contemplating something that
looked like it needed many thoughts and lots of
attention. I called Scott to tell him we needed to
talk. He just answered with a simple “I know.”
I drove over to his house in my dad’s old
1968 Chevrolet that had claimed its own grass parking
space to the right of our driveway. It took me two
weeks of hard labor pulling weeds and planting in
the hot, Georgia sun for him to even consider
handing me the keys to his favorite car of all
time. It
hadn’t been driven since probably 1971 and I
figured nobody’s using it and he already has his
“work
car,” as he called his Ford truck. It was only
common sense to hand it down to his only sixteen
year
old daughter. But in the end, I ended up giving him $500 for it and the threat of having it swept from
my possession if my GPA fell below a 3.0.
The clock mounted on my dashboard read a solid
12:34. Only three painful hours ago I was told that
my parents were filing for divorce. Along with
Scott’s grueling words, my parent’s hadn’t yet
struck a
thought in my confused mind. My mother would take
me to Connecticut to live with her sister until we
found a home to reside in. My father would stay in
Savannah. That morning was being drawn out like a
very surreal dream with all the many twists and
concerns that a thought of the night would own. My
family was the all-American household. I was
brought up in a Christian world by loving parents.
My
mom was a typical soccer mom, sighted at all of my
youth events. Dad kept me focused and
made me stay strong, but I knew inside it hurt him
to know he was losing his only little girl; I could
see
it in his aged brown eyes.
My mom said that by
next week, we would be… gone. I was born and
raised in Savannah, Georgia. I was accustomed to
its folk and southern charm. Not even to mention
my life-long friends and, of course, Scott.
Everything seemed to crash down on my shoulders
like the
waves would beat against the jaded Atlantic coast
where my hometown was based. In seven days
I would be in an unfamiliar state, environment,
city. I would have to make new friends and weave a
narrow path into the Connecticut ways, whatever
they were; I was soon to find out.
What do they know anyways? I thought. Time is only
a concept; a word the world uses so society
can strive to be more organized. Another ironic
thought that flashed through my empty mind: he told
me bleakly he needed time. Well, all we had was a
short time; he was just craving his alone.
Scott never did call after that Thursday in late
July, not that I was expecting him to. I was just
so
programmed to hear his voice every day that I
didn’t feel complete without it. The first of
August
dawned upon us and I took it as my duty to think of
the transformation as a new beginning. I was
starting a new life. Without Scott.
So, now, as I’m writing this on the ninth of August
I’m readjusting myself to the unfamiliar paint
colors
and the cool breezes that would gently graze my
face, even in late summer. One of my friends wrote
me a letter saying Scott had just heard of my new
residence. She stated
that he said he was
already missing me and was craving the lingering
smell of my unmistakable scent. I was moving on; he
was just far too late.
Time has the power to break bonds apart and spread
them so far that the damage is irreparable. It
has the power to put people’s bodies in the right places at just the right moment. It has the power
to
change individual’s feelings… In this case, time
remained a concept. A silent memory of what I left at
5293 Rosebury Drive and a distant, hazy whisper of
the half of Jaime I left on those grounds.
Critique this work
Click on the book to leave a comment about this work
