The lost hour

A family of twelve is not easy to manage. We spend a lot of or energy making sure everyone is on time, has enough attention and is working well with one another. As the staff hand, I go around in circles tending to each family member in chronological order from the youngest eldest trying to focus on all of the minute details.

This is the most important job out of everyone.

I am the timekeeper.

If I stopped, the family would be lost. The clogs would stop and no one would know when it is time to get up, go to school, eat or go to singing lessons.

As the timekeeper though, I only have control over so much. I keep things ticking, but this week we had someone interfere and fast forward the time. They turned the time forward and there was nothing we could do but hold on as the silver hand, the black numbers and the red rim of the clock all blended into one colourful melting pot.

We had no memory of the hour that was stolen from us. The last thing we saw was shadows from the early morning mist, but now it was lighter outside. The members of the house started to come to life, and we had no time to dwell on the time that was stolen from us.

With not a minute to spare, I scrambled to recollect myself and started ticking off time one number at a time. Acting as if nothing had happened. Keeping all of the family back on track. Convincing them that the lost hour was just a bad dream.