Hands Of Time [Chapter 6]

Back at the window she stood, her eyes focused outward and down. She seemed to be looking at the small gathering on my front lawn. One of her hands left the child and reached out to grasp the handle on the window. Her face grimaced as she tried to turn it and open the window. “Hey, What are you doing”, I yelled? She acted as if she heard nothing. He also did not even flinch at the bark of my voice intruding their silence; his face did not waver from the mirror. Could they hear me, I wondered? After a moment of struggle the young woman took her other hand away from supporting the child and moved it up to help turn the window handle. To my utter amazement the child remained pressed to her stomach while she used both hands to manipulate the handle to the desired position. It was if the young girl was performing some incredible slight of hand magic act for a mere two man audience, one of whom was willfully ignorant of her every move and the other questioning his very own sanity. How the infant remained glued to the girl’s stomach while she struggled with both hands to open a window was a mystery to me. Then without warning the handle surrendered to the young girl’s manipulation with a loud crack. Her body lurched slightly forward and to the left, due to the sudden lack of resistance from the once sticky window. The young woman now momentarily paused, head down, thoughtfully gazing at the child in her arms. The young man had torn himself away from his earlier preoccupation and had his head turned to the side, away from the forward focus into the mirror. He was for a moment trying to watch her next move through his peripheral vision; his back was still to her. The girl lifted her head from looking at the bundle in her arms and turned her head to look over her shoulder, one last look to the boy. As her head moved across the room to observe him, his also selfishly moved, with masterful timing, back to its position of utter indifference, facing into mirror. With new tears in her eyes she returned her face toward the window. In utter silence both of them stood peering out through their own personal looking glasses. His gave him only a dismal view of his own inadequacy and because hers lacked the ‘silver lining’ it therefore only pointed out to the cold, dark emptiness. With resolve in her face she lifted her hand to once again grasp the window’s handle, momentarily pausing as if almost waiting to hear the boy’s cry to stop. In that split second I did not waste my breath but with all my lunges ability screamed for her not to open the window. Her arm was free to allow her to do want she wanted to, and that was to open the window. I again discovered that my arm did not enjoy that same freedom. I gave one last attempt to enter the room, but once again was foiled by that blasted clock. My doubled-over body stood erect in an instant when I heard new voices in this all too weird play that I had been observing. I knew immediately who these new voices were. They told her to toss down the bundle and everything would be just fine. I retaliated with a shout for her not to listen to their lies, and for ‘the boy’ to be a man and help her. Both of them ignored me.