Grandma Time

“Grandma Time”. That’s what the neighborhood children called her. They said she was older than time, and she would smile inwardly at their whispers. Despite her age she had extraordinary hearing. Coincidentally, thyme was her favorite thing to cook with. She put it in everything: soups, salads, bread, tea. Sprinkled over fish or massaged into poultry. She even baked it into cookies. But she lived alone, and had no one to cook for besides herself. A few brave young neighbor girls would approach her house when the boys dared them to, only to come back with a delicious cookie in each hand. The girls would smile smugly with their treats, refusing to share with the boys who would only start pushing and daring each other.

Every morning she ate a small breakfast. Just three strips of bacon and one egg with a glass of orange juice. She ate slowly, fully appreciating every aspect of the experience. There wasn’t a single meal that she rushed through.

“Never take the morning for granted”, she would tell her late husband, who passed away in the deep of winter three years ago.

The last morsel of crisp dark bacon crumbled loudly in her mouth as she re-folded the morning paper and cleared the table.

The mid-day streets erupted with commotion. Car traffic, foot traffic. Men and women gabbing away on cellphones, negotiating with ulterior motive all manner of business deals. As if on cue, a bike messenger zipped past with a metallic ring of his bell. Grandma Time strode easily against the hustle and bustle. Even at only five feet tall, she easily stood out among the dark suits in her pink skirt, white blouse, and pink jacket. In stark contrast of her outfit was a crow’s feather tucked tightly into the band of her pink floppy hat. She closed her eyes and tilted her head skyward to get a quick fix of of the sun’s rays. Her bifocal lenses glinted, and the crow’s feather seemed to shimmer. She grinned, almost in thanking, and retreated back under the brim of her large hat.

She stopped at a street-side market. Merchants stood behind their crates, shouting over the noise of the city, and each other, to hock their wares. Grandma Time stood patiently, waiting for the next available opening in the clamor. She held her pink purse in front of her with both hands.

The crowd managed to dissipate briefly. A tall European man standing behind a large crate of various vegetables, in black jeans and a dirtied white t-shirt raised his eyebrows to acknowledge Grandma Time, who stepped forward and smiled up at him.

“What can I get for you today, ma’am?” His accent was thick, but charmingly so. He reached into his back pocket and grabbed a handkerchief to wipe his hands. The handkerchief was almost as dirty as his t-shirt. The gesture was merely a formality.

She ordered a yellow summer squash, three onions, and of course, some fresh thyme. The European swiftly tossed everything into a medium-sized paper bag, as Grandma Time handed him exact change and a hearty tip. He counted the bills, smiled to her, and bowed his head.

That night, Grandma Time made sure to stay up late. She sat at the table and polished some antique silver to pass the time. She could polish silver for hours and not realize it, sometimes forgetting to eat a timely dinner. Her husband would often have to fend for himself, but he wouldn’t think to wrest her from the task. Over the years she had accumulated enough silver to fill their attic. And then some.

Her coo-coo clock chirped loudly twice. Grandma Time glanced up to read the time. 2 AM sharp. She finished her last piece of silver and returned it to the last of three large wooden boxes she had arranged on the kitchen table. She put a kettle of water on the stove to boil, and reached into the pantry for a packet of camomile tea. As the tea steeped, she sprinkled in a small bunch of freshly ground thyme. The aroma was calming and invigorating. Her lungs awoke, and she smiled widely.

This was when she was at her best. In the deepest hours of the morning, on the cusp of not-quite-day. She took the first sip of tea and made her way to the back porch. The night air was balmy. A tiny light bulb spotlit a wooden rocking chair. Grandma Time sat down slowly, began to drink her tea as it reached just the right temperature, and waited.

And waited.

And waited still.

As the coo-coo clock chirped three times from inside the house, the tiny light began to flicker. A chilly wind cut through the warm summer air. For a few minutes, the tiny light was extinguished, and Grandma Time disappeared inside of nothing. In the inky blackness, she finished what was left of her tea and set the empty mug at her feet. She folded her hands in her lap and sighed pitifully.

“Always so dramatic.” she said.

The wind diminished, and the tiny light faded back on.

At the edge of the porch, just beyond the bottom step, a shape began to form from dust that was not dust. It started small, like a miniature tornado in the dirt. As it spun and grew, the shape began to mold and harden but still remain immaterial. Grandma Time could suddenly hear the sounds of insects. Flies, locusts, beetles, mosquitos. It was a deep and violent grumble that emanated from the shape. It continued to spin, and it continued to grow, now standing eight feet tall. It seemed to have sprouted something akin to limbs. Like a gargantuan black snake made of earth, with two arms and a voice of pestilence.

Grandma Time was still smiling.

“So… how’s business?” she asked smugly.

The shape spun wildly, its “arms” jerking and flailing about. The sound of insects grew more pronounced, and reverberated with the shape’s movement.

“Come now, you know that’s not true.” Grandma Time said. “That’s the trouble with your kind, always seeing things in black and white.”

The shape began to sway, now. Almost a dance of seduction, or taunting. The “arms” spun and extended towards Grandma Time, but never strayed into the beam of the tiny light. The sound of insects became less grating, and more soothing, like a cello.

“Do you really think I could be tempted that easily? I’m young, dear one, but I am not foolish by any means.”

The not-dust of the shape was no longer spiraling. It appeared to boil up from the ground. The noise seemed to subside, but it was not gone. It whispered in the back of Grandma Time’s mind.

“You must know as well as I do, dear one, that we each have our roles to play. I have my orders, just as you do. Even now, this discussion of ours plays a part in all of it.”

The bubbling of the shape rose and fell.

“We are two sides of the same coin. You’re not going to win because it’s not about winning. Winning would have to mean that there is an end to all this, and we both know how unlikely that is. ‘Eternity’ means exactly that.”

The bubbling quickly turned back into aggressive spiraling. The noise of insects shot up into a shriek. The empty mug at Grandma Time’s feet split into two jagged halves and fell apart.

“Do not try anything funny.” Grandma Time was no longer smiling. Her tone was cold and commanding. She raised her chin and stared down her nose at the shape, unblinking. “You know where you are standing and you know what the rules are. If you act on those thoughts your boss won’t be any happier and we are both very aware of what he is capable of.”

The shrieking puttered down to a gurgle. The shape slowed and calmed itself.

“As I said, two sides of the same coin. If I go, we both go. So just relax. Let’s just keep up the friendly banter, and we may both live to see another day.”

The shape twisted and writhed. The “arms” collapsed in on themselves. In a burst of not-dust, the cold wind returned. The tiny light flickered and was extinguished again. The porch, the rocking chair, the broken coffee mug, and Grandma Time were drowned in darkness.

The wind faded. The sound of insects grew to an unnerving silence, and for a few minutes there was nothing. The tiny light blinked once.

Twice.

Three-four.

Five.

Grandma Time’s bifocals glinted as the tiny light returned with its pale glow. The last flurry of not-dust slinked away, barely escaping the reach of the light. Grandma Time’s smile returned as she stood up from the rocking chair and took slow steps down the porch.

There, lying in the dirt where the shape took form, a single crow’s feather seemed to shimmer. Grandma Time knelt down, picked it up, and placed it in her pocket.

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