Flying cat

When I talk about 'measurement' in the morning, I think of the baby waking up and the day unfolding in tiny increments, like a clock ticking, each second counted for the chores, the coffee, and the quiet moments between.

At the dinner table, my grandma calls time by the meals, and she uses 'moment' to mean that brief pause when the soup is just right and you catch yourself smiling at how everything seems to fit into place perfectly.

On social media, 'moment' turns into a hashtag and a story that stays for 24 hours, and if you don't tag it, it's like the time never happened at all, just another snap and scroll to forget.

At work, my boss talks about 'time' as if it's money, and we have to clock in, track it, and justify every minute, especially during meetings where we all wait for the next word like it's a timer counting down.

In my relationships, time is the space between texts and the pauses before we talk again, and I learn to read it like a clock face,each hour a choice, each minute a memory.