Before I knew how to tell it. Before I owned a watch. Before Mrs. Bergstrom held up the big wooden face and moved the handles as we shouted out “before” and “after” numbers. Before all of this, there was only the sound of my mother’s voice, calling to the empty lot between Dynda’s house and ours. Where we chased the setting sun, and with only a handful of Norton girls, the lot was never in fact, empty. Bats and balls and bikes. Shoes and sweatshirts making bases. And depending on the season, flattened tracks of grass, flattened tracks of snow. Paths that only led us to believe, there would always be time. 

I don’t know where I learned it. It seemed we all just knew to ask for it — five more minutes. Vowing to make the most of each. In those five minutes we would gather all the fun. All of joy of youth stuffed neatly in our pockets. We wouldn’t waste it. No. Please, please, five minutes more. After which, we would ask again. And we kept asking until the sound of all the porch mothers on Van Dyke Road lowered their voices and we knew it was, in fact, time.

Each year, I try to slow it down. The untangling of lights. The raising of ornaments. The wrapping of gifts. I read the poems slowly and sing the songs loudly. Promising with all my intention that I will indeed value each moment. I really promise. Just let it pass slowly. And in that blink, as I run all the bases of December, I can hear the voice of Christmas morning saying, “It’s time.”