The Meaning of Time

“What's the meaning of time?” she asked as Jeff Buckley played in the background. “Mojo Pin” had long been a favorite of hers, and today was no exception.

“Why does it have to have meaning?” He answered her question with a question, a cruel trick of his that caused her to pout, which he adored.

“I suppose it doesn't.” They were driving through the desert again, thinking too hard about things beyond their control as they whizzed past cholla, saguaro, and agave plants on the side of the road.

How had it come to this? That was another question she had, though one she didn't dare voice. The trouble with asking such questions, she had learned the hard way, is that sometimes unwelcome answers would come. Best to remain silent, which she did... for a while.

“We were gone a long time,” she said as one song bled into the next. The title track played:

There's the moon asking to stay
Long enough for the clouds to fly me away
Well it's my time coming, I'm not afraid to die

“Long enough to miss the place,” he said and she didn't disagree.

The highway made her lonely. Buckley made her lonely. Everything made her lonely. It was her way, as it is most everyone's way if they stop and think about it, which they usually don't.

“Still,” she said, “I would do it again.”

My time has come
It reminds me of the pain
I might leave
Leave behind

“Yeah, I could see that, in the right circumstances.”

“And what are the right circumstances?”

“Can't say I've given it much thought.”

She nodded. That was a fair response.

“Good question, though,” he said, “about the meaning of time.”