I was the sandman, and I always felt late to the party each day;
I tried my best to tell jokes and be pleasant, but I thought for certain that people just didn't want me around long enough to get to know me.
If you asked me, I'd tell you that there was never enough; the sand would fill my fingers, but slowly fall down the glass funnel. It pooled in the bottom, engulfing the cavernous bottom below of the glass. My glass, to keep from emptying, the drummer of his own tune.
You see, it keeps ticking on, and so must I. I've watched faces come and go, whither up and shrivel like flower petals. Watched beautiful young women become old crones, and some age like a fine wine in a mildewed cellar. The smell of skin, stretched thin with new and glistening wonder. Or the old creases of a face that reminded me of a library I'd pondered through, taking in each book that their thoughts had created.
I am the sandman, and I always felt late to the party each day;
for my job was to keep the time, but I never had enough hours in my day.
© Danielle Willard, 2018. All rights reserved.