for saxophone quartet (2023)

The Entirety of past and present and future progresses down the boardwalk, blazing/crawling only forward into the next [ ___ ] on the Great Moving Panorama of Forever. Just beyond the shoreline I am adrift in parallel to her- swimming, floating, sinking.

We, ships in the night/day/afternoon, are acquaintances. Sometimes friends, often enemies. She’s sadly almost always too busy to slow down and socialize. There are times (tide dependent) I can keep up in the shallows to chat, but sometimes (often) I am swept back to the deeper sea- unmoored and doggy paddling again.

I am often (rarely) jealous of beachgoers who can get up and leave with her as they please. I watch them pack their picnics, quickly say their goodbyes, and rush off. But I also see this sort of spaghettification of things they leave behind in their haste to catch up.

She, O great Mother Time, hurtles forward, 
trailed by the wrappers/keys/loose change/emotions/people/memories/other things left behind and forgotten, her bag overflowing. When I’m able to join her (often/sometimes/rarely), I try picking up those bits and bobs of comet tail, tucking them into pockets, balancing them on my head, holding them in my arms, but the more I carry, the slower I go. Though her gravity pulls me along I can’t seem to keep up.

I’m blinded, yet bound, by her.

She must be so tired. I want to hug her and let her know that it’s ok to unpack that supermassive beach bag and dump all the clutter- to lighten up for a bit and just tread water with me offshore. But people make so many demands of her (there are apparently many high expectations for an enormous intangible wisp of concept) so probably not. Would it be so bad for Time to take some time off? Who gives marching orders to a god?

But at least for Now, back to sea for me. I’ll just swim (float) (sink) side-by-side and empty handed, watching her go go go– a bright streak across the Always.

– Shelley Washington