It’s been three weeks. Time, dragging its feet across the stone floor of our minds as if shackled at the ankles. Time, kneeling, out of breath.
Time is what she doesn´t have. In spring, she bolted up and down hills on her bicycle. She bladed across the plaza then fell, pulling my daughter
down with her. Jumbled skates and laughter, soft spring light cascading over their comically twisted bodies, four years of friendship chronicled in pictures like this one.
In summer, they tossed days in the air like sticks and leaves, time scattering in their wake, trampled under their feet as they moved on to a new game.
Three weeks of tests and she´s home for the weekend, a reprieve from x-rays and sonographies, from punctures and bloodwork and intravenous lines. Time has chiseled her legs into
stilts. Her torso sits on top, tilting as she walks, the whole frame threatening to rupture, yet she races my daughter up ladders, they glide down slides in tandem
while her moms chase minutes around the clock, grab them from behind as if they were a pack of thieves, wondering if answers might be found in time´s immobilized hands.
My daughter asks me when her best friend is coming back to school. I look at her face, round and luminous as the sun, her burning gaze, and I think, only time will tell.
Julie Weiss received her BA in English Literature and Creative Writing from SJSU. She´s a 45-year-old ex-pat from Foster City, California, who moved to Spain in 2001 and never looked back. She works as a telephone English teacher from her home in Guadalajara, Spain, where she lives with her wife, 4-year-old daughter, and 2-year-old son. Her work has been published in Lavender Review, Sinister Wisdom, The American Journal of Poetry, Santa Clara Review, Sky Island Journal, and Random Sample Review, among others, and appears or is forthcoming in several anthologies.