OnceJudy Stewart©2025When the room went dark, she heard her name. Strange, to hear it spoken so softly in a place like this: so out of context to her life, where time and place had been so critical.A metronome of sound had ticked away seconds, minutes, hours, and days. Be on time, they said. Please, don’t be late, they pleaded. Get that done as soon as possible, they warned. You have ten seconds, they announced, holding up ten fingers and counting down as if every life event was a dramatic rocket-launch! Right now, she waits for time to stand still. To simply stop. Her aching soul does not strive for eternal life, not like this, nor like that! The unrelenting second hand of her watch skips along like the rhythmic beating of a healthy heart. If only they knew, she whispers out loud in her weak, diminished voice. Why in God’s name have they left that watch around my wrist? Isn’t there a protocol? A grotesquely engraved gold watch was presented to her after twenty-five years. Her obnoxious boss thought it would make a smile cross her wrinkled face at her elaborate retirement party. Instead, she stood at the solid oak podium, frilled with corporate bunting, eyes transfixed on the sagging, open gift bag, the cushioned satin box, and layers of gold sparkly tissue paper in front of her, sobbing, her chest heaving in unspoken, unbelievable outrage. Of all the things they might have given her: a fucking watch? Her job had been time-driven. This is true. Every six minutes, she would glance surreptitiously toward her left wrist to make sure that one sixth of an hour had passed while her clients wailed about their problems, their rages, their fears, their rights! Within fifteen minutes, she would have amassed enough from the self-righteous or guilt-laden drivel to determine whether there was a valid claim, a case to be researched and won. As clients carried on with endless chatter, amid bravado, and sometimes tears and sideways glances, she calculated her fees to win a nice settlement, or keep the client out of the poor house, or even prison where some of them belonged.But, still! Day after day, hour after hour, minute by minute, second by second? What kind of life had she lived, if she had lived a life at all? It was a rare day when she spent her waking hours outside soaking up the sun, or the rain or that matter.Although she never admitted it to anyone, she despised people and their petty, greedy, problems: their negligence, stupidity, and boundless naivety. She never was a good listener, despite the thralls of praise she heard about herself, as an attentive, caring person. Her internal clock was always ticking, ticking, ticking to the rhythm of facts and outcomes, dollars and, yes, good law-abiding sense.People would come through the door, arms outstretched to receive her famous, motherly hugs as she embraced them. But, with each hug, a small part of her soul retreated to an internal inferno where she hoarded her resentment, her guilt, and her anger toward the system that had robbed her of any meaningful interaction with another human being for a quarter of a century. Many people showered her with praise: like rose petals and confetti the compliments rained down, until she almost grasped them to her heart, internalized, and believed them. Her ego wall, that was at one time kept current with plaques, diplomas, certificates, trophies, and even gaudy medals, was now layered with dust. People of all walks of life gushed that they loved her strong, lilting voice, her outgoing and charming personality, the way she held herself in public, the colour and tailored lines of her clothing, and even the bobbed cut of her greying hair. They raved about her leather briefcase and her wonderful clicking shoes, the color of which always matched the two hundred dollar handbag slung casually over her shoulder. At one time, she had personified strength, and radiated pure power. If only those people knew how she had kicked off her heels and unrolled her fifty dollar stockings as soon as she opened the door to her empty apartment – one could hardly call it a home. If only they could see the walls devoid of family memorabilia, or could fathom the depths and the clutter of papers and books on every surface. If only they understood that not even a cat or plant kept her company during the endless hours when she ate, sat, read, and slept alone. There was no strength or power in that now was there?Now, in this second, this second, this second, she lies alone, with the watch firmly encasing her feeble wrist as time winds down, and the cancer eats her from the inside out. Sheets on the hospital bed are yellowed, drenched with sweat, hanging off to the side. The attending nurses have detached the IVs. A droopy-eyed, exhausted on-call doctor, checking his laptop on a high rolling stand, taps his fingers while calming announcing that, at this point in time, she is palliative. As he speaks her name out loud in the darkened room, she gulps in this knowledge and mouth-whispers: It is just a matter of time.With each beat of her heart, the watch announces that another moment of her life has gone by, gone by, gone by, gone by…Then, suddenly, life stops! As she draws her last breath, she thinks: Please do not let those bastards bury me with this watch clamped to my wrist. One small tear escapes from her right eye and slides down her cheek into the crevasse by her parched lips. With the last ticking second, as her mouth opens in the wide O of death, the lonely tear disappears into the abyss, forever stilled. The nurse looks at her and sighs as her patient lays there, clothed only in a stained, blue hospital gown, dead, with only her watch methodically ticking over time. She whispers to no one and everyone: “You know, she was really something. Once.” &nbsp;

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Once

JudyStewart2025

Judy Stewart

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Once

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