Скачать или смотреть “The Clock Is Ticking — And You’re Scrolling”

I am one hundred years old, and the strangest thing about reaching this age is realizing how fast it all went. A hundred years sounds enormous when you’re young. It feels like something reserved for other people. But now that I’m here, sitting in a quiet room with a blanket over my knees, it feels like a week that slipped through my fingers.

The clock on my wall ticks louder than it used to. Or maybe I just hear it more. At one hundred, you become aware of time in a way that is almost physical. It presses against you. Every morning I wake up surprised, and every night I close my eyes knowing there aren’t many left.

The clock is ticking — and I spent so many of those ticks distracted.

When I was young, time felt generous. I was twenty-three when I got married. I was busy, proud of how much I could handle. I worked during the day, kept the house at night. I told myself I was building something important. And I was. A family. A life.

But I was always rushing.

When my first daughter tugged at my skirt and asked me to watch her dance in the living room, I remember saying, “In a minute.” I was drying dishes. There were always dishes. Always something that felt urgent.

That minute never came back.

You don’t notice what you’re trading when you’re young. You think you’re being responsible. You think love can wait five minutes. Ten minutes. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is such a dangerous word.

In my thirties, I wanted to prove myself. The world had changed, and women were stepping into spaces our mothers never had. I worked longer hours. I stayed late. I told myself it was for the children, for their future. I missed school plays because there was always one more report to finish. One more meeting.

I remember sitting at my desk once, the office nearly empty, staring at a family photo taped beside my computer. I thought, I’m doing this for them.

But they were at home without me.

I don’t think I was a bad mother. I loved my children fiercely. I kissed their foreheads at night. I packed their lunches at dawn. But I was tired. And when they wanted to talk — really talk — about their small heartbreaks or their silly fears, I sometimes half-listened.

I would nod while thinking about the next day’s responsibilities.

The clock was ticking.

In my forties, life became routine. Comfortable, even. My husband and I stopped talking the way we used to. Not because we were angry. Just busy. We’d sit in the same room, each of us with our own newspaper or television show. We told ourselves this was normal. This was marriage.

There were nights we could have reached for each other’s hand. We didn’t.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no big fight. Just a slow drifting. Like two boats tied to the same dock but facing slightly different directions.

I always thought there would be time to reconnect. A vacation. Retirement. When things slowed down.

Things don’t slow down the way you imagine.

My husband died when I was seventy-two. A quiet heart attack in his sleep. I remember standing beside the hospital bed, looking at his face, thinking how strange it was that the man I’d shared fifty years with could suddenly be unreachable.

There were words I had meant to say. Silly things. Thank you for fixing the porch light. I’m sorry for that argument in 1987. I still like the way you laugh.

They stayed in my throat.

After he was gone, the house became very quiet. Too quiet. I would sit at the kitchen table in the morning and stare at the empty chair across from me. I realized then how many mornings I had rushed through, barely looking at him over my coffee.

I had assumed there would be thousands more.

In my eighties, my children were grown, with children of their own. They were busy in the same way I had been. I would call and sometimes hear distraction in their voices. “I’ll call you back, Mom.” They loved me. I know they did.

But I recognized the sound of postponement.

I didn’t blame them. How could I? I had taught them that busyness was important. That productivity meant love. That providing was more urgent than presence.

Now, at one hundred, my world is smaller. Most of my friends are gone. My siblings are gone. My husband is gone. The photographs on my dresser outnumber the living people who remember the stories behind them.

I spend long afternoons thinking about moments that seemed unimportant at the time.

The way my daughter’s hair caught the sunlight when she spun in the living room.

The sound of my son’s laugh when he was missing his front teeth.

The weight of my husband’s hand resting on my back as we crossed a street.

None of those moments felt urgent.

I was always waiting for the “important” parts of life. The promotions. The milestones. The anniversaries. The big events we dress up for and take pictures of.