Saturday

The little mouse stared at the tall, ancient grandfather Clock. She has been looking intently, intensively and impatiently for quite a long while. Sometimes, she wonders. Was it her imagination that the second hand had stopped moving? It better had not. ‘Cause if it stopped, it means the minute hand will stop. Which means the hour hand will stop. Which means... the time will stop??? How absurd can this sound?

But it’s a fact. It’s true. Today is STILL Saturday. But, yesterday was Saturday. And the day before yesterday was Saturday. The week before weeks before was also Saturday. Or at least she thinks so. Or maybe, her mousie eyes were right. The grandfather Clock has been ticking like a great-great-grandma snail.

Will tomorrow be another Saturday? Or maybe, prior to that question, will tomorrow ever come? Has the Clock really given up moving Its hands?

Please, don’t, the little mouse begged and plead and cried. Please, move Your hands, O'mighty Clock. Tick… tick… tick… For the sound is so abundantly yearned and craved.

Each second is another step away to one minute. Each minute is one pace nearer to one hour. Every hour is one moment closer to tomorrow.



Sunday.