Just Passing Time

The man at the head of the table holds it between his sunburned hands. He says he is a farmer, whose annual crop has spoiled from disease. He says his daughter needs new shoes and his wife is with child. For now he is just waiting for next spring. Nothing can be done until then.

He passes it to the next person.

Now a young college student speaks with it. He explains that he is just waiting for something exciting to happen. His studies are too easy. He needs somebody to energize his life so he can get back on track. He is in a sort of purgatory, a state of boredom.

And he passes it as well.

An old woman takes it in with the tips of her withered fingers. Her wizened little mouth opens with a gasp. She says she is going to die in two months and eleven days. Her children stopped speaking to her. Her grandchildren have never met her. A tear glistens on her pink cheek.

It keeps passing.

A foster child with no place to go. She tells her tale in a secretive whisper.

It passes.

A teenager who killed his friends in a drunk driving accident. In confinement, all there is to do is think.

It passes.

A mother of eight whose husband just left her. She is looking for a job.

It passes.

A newlywed who admits that she only married for the money. Her husband is a bore.

It passes.

Everyone shares their story until each one has held it.

The farmer holds it up and drops it on the floor, until it shatters around their feet into shards.

The old woman shakes her head and sighs. What a waste of time.