When my son was four, I told him. “Five more minutes.”
“Who’s minutes?” He asked.
As I stood at the kitchen sink, with warm suds dripping from my fingertips, I explained. “Everyone’s minutes are the same. They all have 60 seconds…”
“No,” he muttered. “They are not the same.”
“Time is the same. Everyone has twenty-four hours in a day--”
His head shook his little tow head. “No. They’re not. When you say, ‘five minutes before bed.’ Those are my minutes and they’re fast. And when you say, ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’ Those are your slow minutes. Who’s minutes mine or yours’s?”
When I look back, I am beginning to think he was right. The only way I could have possible managed to raise two children, work full-time, maintain a house, attend numerous activities and write was I had slow minutes.
Now I’m 56 and retired, people say, "what do you do all day?"
"I walk the dog, do up a few dishes, sometimes write."
They look at me like my son did at four.
I shake my head. They don't understand. Now, I have fast minutes and before I get anything done, the day's over.