Dara
Carson Cummins
Dara was eighteen years old when she stomped on her watch.
Its face was silver and small, the size of a quarter, and it was held together by a thin band of light brown faux leather, which had worn and worn and worn over years to reveal a yellow foam interior. She unlatched it from her wrist and felt a delightful emptiness. She put it on the ground and shattered it with the heel of her boot.
Instead, Dara began to measure time in things around her. Dish shifts at the bakery were two hours, though it took around two minutes to scrub each cookie sheet clean. Her hands would feel tight and dry after thirty minutes. The water got cold after forty-five. And every day at 10:15, Marge the pie baker would sprint to the nearby oven and rescue the delectable apple pastries with flaking crusts of gold.
Next, Dara let go of increments. There were no such things as hours or minutes or seconds. There was the drive from her house to the grocery store, which felt rather short, though it could go longer if she took the left down Alden Street to see the dogwood trees in bloom. There was the new song her friend Brady played for her, which felt endless, though maybe it would have felt fast to someone who likes heavy metal. And there were the pages of One Hundred Years of Solitude read every night before bed, which felt both jarringly long and shockingly short, though not enough to stop her from reading them over and over again.
Before long, Dara said goodbye to time entirely.
She did not tap her foot.
She did not count her steps.
She did not use her calendar.
She did not set her alarm.
She did not wait for tomorrow
and she did not remember yesterday.
Carson Cummins, SAS ’21, is a lover of theater, history, storytelling, and gluten-free baked goods. She now resides in Ourense, Spain, where she is an elementary ESL teacher. She encourages everyone to stomp on their watches.
Carson wrote this prose poem in Paul Blaney’s Intro to Creative Writing course. Blaney selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.