It was small, the stain, a deep red that permeated the fabric of the car seat. Pomegranate seeds contain a brighter red juice than almost any other fruit. The boy who’d made it hadn’t meant to; the fruit was small and he missed his mouth while snacking–poor timing.
Time is relative; it means different things to different people, but one common thread seems to be that we never have enough of it.
It was small, the stain, and I scrubbed it over and over with Clorox wipes because the car was new and I wanted to keep it clean. I did my best to get it out, but the remnants remained despite my best efforts. It would exist for all time, or at least as long as the car.
Time is forward moving; it goes on even as we become puzzle pieces that no longer connect to the fabric of the world. Things happen, and there is a wall that separates the happened to from the not. It’s late; it’s early; one can’t really tell.
It was small, the stain, and nothing compared to the stains of my last car. When I sold that car, I got five hundred dollars for it. When I sold this car, I would get a lot more. But I was stuck with it for a long time.
Time is numbing; it can take away our ability to speak, to feel, to act. But it can also give it back.
It was small, the stain. But it was never coming out.