The Time of Our Lives

The following prose gives fresh perspective on time, the bustle of life and the people we encounter.

I held your hand as you faded into an eternal dream. You looked at me before closing your eyes, proud of the boy at your bedside, now a man. My fear of losing you could not be masked by a textured face from shadows untrimmed. 

Your body was frail, but your grip on my hand remained firm. Memories blurred together through dust-coated screen doors as glimpses flashed before us of your life on the farm with your sisters. Many moons watching your father return from long days of provision. While his work ethic instilled your resolve, you promised yourself a deeper presence for the sake of your children. Personal covenants kept, intentions set—as the dominos fell through our lineage.

The world had not always dealt you a fair hand, yet you persisted. I watched happily as you recognized the love in your life, trailing through moments with a smile as you moved toward the light. It shone upon you with radiance as I stepped out to follow before my time. 

I closed my eyes to leave this place behind when a sharp buzzing from my nightstand across the room wakes me to notifications unchecked. A small backlit screen door of attention, primed to meet the eyes before sunlight kisses the face.

I lay still, watching the fan’s slow spiral as my thoughts trail with it. The endless vibrations of client meetings and project updates echo through the room. I cover my ears before sitting up with a shallow sigh. Rolling back the bed covers across my legs, I plant my feet on the ground, resting my soles and stretching limbs disjointed before walking over to pick up the phone.

“This is the one, bro, I feel it! I’m gonna head to the office early, get ahead of the rush.

Looking forward to seeing those finalized items you added to the pitch deck for today.”

“Facts. Tell the program director I’ll be there in the next hour. Don’t drink up all the coffee before I get there, lol.” 

Another sigh bellows from my chest as I hit “send” to my partner Sharod before preparing for the day. Horns rage across the streets from cars stacked bumper to bumper in the heart of the city. Weekday routines for most people who are too distracted to notice they’ve missed their exit or are merging into the passing lane while going 15 miles under the flow of traffic.

I veer off from the rush, parking my vehicle along 36th Street and sprint to the light rail’s Blue Line, boarding just as the doors close. Four cars packed together with people pressed against one another like canned sardines. I look both ways to find a seat, settling for a handrail instead as the tram system jolts forward, rocking passengers. A digital voice signals our departure and announces the next stop.

Multi-hued faces are cast down toward low-resolution projections—hidden in their own worlds, their own lives, their own time. I follow suit, unlocking my device to pull up the project proposal documents. I lean against the car doors for support and pinch the screen to enlarge the PDF’s typeface. Scrolling over details, my mind races through answers to potential questions from sponsors. The train slows as it makes its way into Parkwood station, interrupting my rehearsed speech for the board meeting. Curious, I look up to watch my fellow passengers. 

The doors open as several people leave. One woman in a silk-wrapped hijab speaks Farsi to her son, tapping his shoulder for him to stop playing his game and exit the train. A young group of skaters sporting backpacks and graphic tees hop off as well, throwing their boards against the concrete and riding out toward Optimist Hall. The doors close as the engine regains traction. Electricity pulses through the gears as it glides along the rails, accelerating further. I look up briefly to check the route schedule again when an incoming text eclipses the project brief on my phone. 

“Hey bro, the program director came to the office early—says he’s on a tight schedule today and only has a small window. What’s your ETA?” - Sharod

My heart races, knowing I have another five stops before getting to Brooklyn Village Station.

“Just keep him occupied with the new developments. I’ll be there shortly.”

I hit send as the train decelerates, approaching 9th Street. A father boards with his two daughters in ballet uniforms covered by jackets that read Charlotte Ballet Academy. The two girls, no older than 10, jump into the car, giggling with warm smiles. They both had the same top knot bun laced with gold thread to compliment their dark almond hair. It was clear they are twins, as their innocent glee brought smiles to a few of the other passengers, including my own. I shift my gaze up to the father, guiding his children to the open seats available. 

There is an uneasiness to his spirit as he pulls his phone from his coat pocket, anxiously scrolling. His nervousness is palpable, reinforcing life’s pressures. The twins look out the window as the train jolts forward again, completely entranced by the passing buildings and street signs as we enter Uptown. Once more, I return to the glowing PDF, re-assimilating to the stressors of my commitments.

The train makes a brief transition into 7th Street Station, where the father of the twins, now playing patty cake, motions to them that this is their stop. They quickly depart as three new passengers enter. One man in a gray business suit with a navy blue tie, talking numbers and investments over his AirPods. He mentions one of the banks in the city that he intends to arrive at. 

A homeless couple follows behind him, carrying several tattered grocery bags across each arm. The man of the pair is actively engaged in a conversation with the woman as they sit along the side seats. He speaks in a loud, boisterous tone as she listens intently to his story. Despite their disposition, they seem happy, even content with admonishing laughs and crooked smiles between each other. My hand vibrates twice as I look back down to another notification.

“Yo, where you at?” 

“Two more stops, G.”

“He just left the boardroom to take a call. Send over the documents, and I can get started for us.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in seven.”

I hit send, tapping my feet with impatience as the train arrives at CTC station. The couple exits the car, carrying on their dialogue while crossing the bridge toward Queen City Quarter’s Epicenter. The engine rests for a moment, drawing its breath with doors open, as CTC is one of Charlotte’s busiest pickup points. Many new passengers enter. A group of exchange students fills the car with chatter about weekend plans. A teenager with corded headphones and ripped Carhartt jeans stashes his BMX bike on the train’s rack. Several other black and blue suits enter as well, eyes locking to their phones upon entry.

I glance up again at the light rail’s transit route. Only two more stops left, and I’m good to go. If I can make a mad dash to the office building, I’ll be home free, thinking to myself. The impulse to peer back down at my phone and check the hour is thwarted by a moment that hits me like a ton of bricks. I place the device in the pocket of my hoodie to take in this sight, staring outside the window.

A dark elderly man sits alone, clasping a styrofoam cup with holes in his T-shirt and red stains marking his eyes. His body hunches downward on the station bench. There is a flame to his soul, a light that draws my attention. Yet I can see the fire within him dimming from time. The gray naps in his hair are covered by what appears to be a distressed Vietnam War military cap, Army regiment. I do not know him personally, but I can perceive that his fight on this earth has worn him thin. The film over his eyes makes contact with mine before returning his gaze to the ground, tipping back the cup to meet his lips. I watch as his stoic demeanor grows cold after drawing back his drink. He sets the cup down, releasing a long exhale as people pass him by. 

My phone buzzes once more, yet I don’t reach for it. The elder holds my presence as I contemplate his experience. Who was he, and what wars has he faced in this lifetime beyond his service? My mind continues to drift into possibilities when, out of the corner of my eye, stop a mother and her son who is around preschool age. She scolds the boy, shouting at him to keep close as his wandering feet head toward the tracks. The child moves closer to her but is more attentive to the yellow smiley-faced balloon tied to his wrist. 

The boy plays on, laughing as the helium-filled rubber bobs in the air. The two stand just in front of the elder on the bench. Another vibration from my phone prompts me to reach for my pocket when a shift happens, keeping my focus on the outside world. 

The elder's posture slowly changes. His slumped shoulders begin to rise, and the impression of a smile forms across his face as he watches the boy play with his balloon. His bloodshot eyes well with tears as he observes the child's joy radiating through him. I watch on, awestruck at how a brief moment in time generates such a ripple effect across ages. The doors close in preparation to depart. Tears stream down the elder’s creased cheekbones. His smile remains unbroken, as if a tender whisper breathed life into him once again, pushing him to continue on a little further. 

I observe this interaction as the train leaves the station, watching on until they are both out of sight from the distance. The Blue Line approaches 3rd Street. With one more stop to go before arriving at the office, I impulsively reach for my phone, glaring at Sharod’s messages sent five minutes ago.

“He only has 20 minutes, so I decided to make an audible.
I’m starting the meeting with the initial treatment—we’ll be ready for your updates when you get here.”

Mixed emotions of anger and self-frustration cause slight tremors in my hands as I return the phone to my pocket. Knowing the program director was punctual about time, feelings of overwhelm builds a snowball effect of worst-case scenarios from my absence. I reach back for the phone to respond when scenes from CTC Station flood back into memory.

In the eyes of the boy, time did not exist. His experience rested in the presence of a balloon suspended in the air with no concern for his mother’s agenda. For the elder, time was a swinging pendulum, unforgiving and crippling. His fortitude—eroded by its force. Yet despite everything, these two were linked together from one shared moment. 

My thumbs hover over the screen as I remember the nostalgia of my grandmother’s home. Her outstretched hands reached for mine. I kissed them before heading back to the city. My plans to return in a few months were years in her mind. Still, we shared a common thread during that visit. 

A memory etched in a dream, not bound by the limits or constraints of time but reinforced through glimpses passed on from a few minutes ago. My grandmother’s smile reflected the elders at the station. Regardless of the time elapsed between us, she knew that no matter where this road would take me, I would always find my way back. The train slows, finally entering Brooklyn Village Station. I close my eyes in acceptance, inhaling deeply to relax. The doors open as I type.

“All good, brother,  I trust you—see you soon.”