by Rachel Howells

Created on: August 28, 2011   Last Updated: September 23, 2011

Time marched ahead of Lisa when she was preoccupied elsewhere. She started out on the main road, but became sidetracked by what she thought was a rare and beautiful flower.

She wandered off down an obscure path to investigate further, only to discover the flower was actually a thorny, poisonous weed. Still, she thought perhaps if she gave it enough care and attention, the weed would blossom into the flower she had first thought it to be. But many years passed before she understood that weeds, although they may flower, are a hazard that interferes with the integrity of any garden.

When Lisa finally made her way back from the byway, time was so far ahead of her, there was no humanly possible way to catch up. She couldn’t see it anymore. Where had the time gone?

Now, here she was facing sixty! She couldn't believe it, as she peered into the mirror at the aging face of a stranger staring back at her. How could time have done this to her?

She clearly remembered peering into the same mirror on her twentieth birthday. She had tried, unsuccessfully, to imagine what her face would look like with wrinkles and jowly skin. After studying her reflection for a while, she'd spontaneously made an oath to herself that as she got older, she would not mourn the passing of her youth, or dwell on regret.

Instead, she would celebrate all the seasons of her life and enjoy what was unique to each.  She'd accomplish things and pursue artistic endeavors. She'd have a family and she'd travel. She would spend her life developing a faith in God so when she died, she would be at peace knowing she was going to a better place.

However, all her good intentions for a meaningful life snagged on that thorny weed she had spent, what should have been the most fruitful years of her life, trying to nurture. His name was Reed – "Reed the Weed," she thought with a sardonic smile and laughed out loud. But it wasn't funny.

Reed's wilted corpse hung loosely from her increasingly arthritic hands, and that wasn't funny either. Neither was the cold, barren landscape her life had become without the protection of time. There she stood, unable to move, choking on the dust of time, as it steadily carried on without even a backwards glance.

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