Two definitions of time

After Charles Simic (but before Paul Durcan)

He is fond of the image of time as a river. In conversation, he blames his routine for propelling him through his life. In his thoughts he imagines his fingers skipping along the surface of this time-as-a-river, with transient ripples the only evidence of his passing. In his wake is an intimidating body of labour to which he may not affix his name. He loves Lewis Carroll and constantly reads sentences looking for acrostics. We are eating to celebrate his retirement.

“I worked with your parents then,” he says. I am listening to myself make up stories about my family. He’s speaking of regret of never knowing his own father. In fact, when my father passed away, I was running a food stall just outside Union Station. But I had no urge to ask my father how he lived his life. How could I not know that? My father spent the most important part of his life with us.

I feel strangely warm towards this friend of my father’s and wish to tell him something of consequence, but instead he gets called over to a table where a professional acquaintance sits. Once I am alone the urge to leave grows very strong. But I know I am also being observed by his acquaintance and suddenly leaving would give the him something impolite to share with his working friends.

He returns to ask for the bill. I pay for both our meals. I explain that I am fond of the image of time as a corked bottle of wine, maturing through a gentle transformation. When I die the wine finally escapes, spilling intense flavour over whatever obstacles present themselves before pooling on the floor below. I see a young woman, fingers out to the stream of wine, hesitating. She touches the stream, and raises her fingers to her lips.