There are still five minutes. Five minutes to watch the chrysalis. The monarch. In its cocoon.
Still five minutes. Still five minutes to watch the space shuttle Columbia. Still two minutes before lift off. Five whole minutes. To sit and watch. To watch the Ripper on his corner. To watch him plot. And choose. Two more minutes until showtime. Until showtime. Come ‘ere, mum… SHOWTIME.
There’s still time. Still-time. Still, time. Until. Until a Habsburg is born. Until a Habsburg dies. Dies of his pure blood. Five more minutes to stare in disgust at a Habsburg’s face. Two more minutes to wonder what makes you so special. Peek at the clock.
Good. Five minutes ahead. Five minutes to talk to you. Talk to you more. For longer. Two minutes to sit outside with Ma. No rush. No rush from the breeze. Together. Two minutes under the sun, on the porch in the yard. Five minutes at the beach, on the sand, with those who left.
Damn it all if they didn’t choose to leave. Damn it if they didn’t fall. Through my fingers. If they didn’t fall through my fingers. Pour over, around, and off of my fingers. The ones who left, they’re sand. How crazy does that sound? Two minutes before the skin is flayed from my hands.
And before the muscle, gristle, veins are removed from between the bones of my hands. Two minutes until. Before the sand is sifted through the mutilation that was my right hand. And my left hand.