The family huddled close together on the scuffed hardwood of their living room floor. On their knees, they clasped hands in a tight circle, shoulders almost touching. The father was an older man, balding, with a round nose that protruded from his face like a sweaty doorknob. His skin was porous and each crater glistened in the light of the single lamp in the corner of the room. He closed his eyes and mumbled the same words, over and over.
“Our time has come. May God have mercy on our souls.”
Again, and again, and again.
His wife trembled next to him in a high-collared green dress. She had been pretty once, maybe beautiful. Now her thick blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun, save for one rogue strand that clung to her damp forehead. Tear tracks ran down her cheeks as she tried to control her sobs, keep them contained like wild animals within her chest. She sniffed once and squeezed her eyes shut as she turned her face to the cieling, swaying to the rhythm of her husband’s prayers.
Across from her, a small boy stared at his mother with eyes and mouth wide open. He was six, not old enough to understand what was happening. But he still turned to glance at the clock compulsively. Two minutes until the big hand reached the twelve. That meant it was almost one o’clock. That was when his father said it would happen.
He had seen his father pray many times; before every meal, before bedtime. But it was never like this. This was different.
The girl next to him had thick blonde hair just like her mother’s, only hers was pulled back in a disheveled ponytail. She was older than her brother, and those years showed through her cutting gaze as she stared across the small circle at her father. Her eyes were the cold blue of arctic water, and her unwavering stare had the temperature to match. She displayed none of the fear of her mother, none of the confusion of her brother. She knew exactly what was happening.
Through it all, the father prayed. “Our time has come. May God have mercy on our souls.”
Again, and again, and again.
The mother swayed, the daughter stared, and the boy continued to glance back at the clock. The big hand moved through one minute, then two. Then three. Then four. Finally, it read two minutes past one.
“Father,” the boy whispered, as if he were afraid that the word might turn around and bite his tongue. The girl turned slowly to look at her brother, but their father did not hear. Glancing at his sister, the boy mustered some courage and whispered again, “Father.”
“Our time has-“ the man faltered. He opened his eyes and looked at his son, his eyebrows gathering like stormclouds. “What is it?”
“Um. Well, it’s- The big hand is past the twelve. Shouldn’t it have happened by now?”
The man paused for a moment before answering.
“God keeps his own time. He goes by no man’s clock.” Closing his eyes again, he continued. “Our time has come. May God have mercy on our souls.”
The children exchanged glances but said nothing. Their mother opened her eyes and glanced at the clock herself. She tried to sway to her husband’s words again but couldn’t find the rhythm, and finally stopped. She looked down at the bare floor between the family and sniffed one more time. The minute hand kept moving, just as it always had. Five minutes past one. Then ten. Then thirty.
“Our time has come. May God have mercy on our souls.”
Again, and again, and again.
Photo by Kalyan Chakravarthy