Broken Hourglass and Sellotaped Faith

On the Friday just passed, I was supposed to be at a concert. My mum and I were going and she was really excited about it. I had even applied for leave, so I could drive us to London. During the drive, we had a long conversation for two hours about everything under the sun, and we had dinner and coffee at our favourite restaurant in London. We were prepared for the concert. When we got to the arena, all the doors were locked and there were no one else around. A quick google search showed me that the concert was postponed to March next year. I started laughing. My mum was undoubtedly disheartened. She got an email (found later in her junk folder) about the cancellation just two days previously. It was a waste of a trip, she said. Was it?

Four years ago
I was packing to move my life to another city for university. I was shopping with my parents when I saw an hourglass. It cost £40, more than what I was willing to spend on it. But my mum insisted and bought it for me. During my first year of university, I would wake up, and spend twenty minutes (the duration of the hourglass) practicing typing. I would also use the hourglass as motivation when I didn't particularly didn't feel like studying.

Two years ago
A few of my friends, were in the kitchen studying and I went into my room to get my laptop, and I thought it would be fun to study with the hourglass. But I was already carrying a lot, and I decided to balance the hourglass on the laptop as I carried it into the kitchen. I tend to overestimate the functioning of my cerebellum and its ability to co-ordinate my movements to balance well. The hourglass fell and broke, forming a small cloud of grey dust and a thousand small pieces of glass, each one reflecting the depth of my regret.

G, J and Ann immediately started to clean the mess up.

One year ago
G and J remembered and bought the same one for my birthday last year. The hourglass once more brought me joy, not by its existence in my room, but because of what it represented.

Every item of decor in my room has a story. A painting made by my friend during lockdown, a printout of my friends' hands from the time when we pressed our palms against the photocopier to see what would happen, my very first phone with its display screen smashed from a night out, etc. Added to this, was the hourglass.

I never played with the new hourglass. It sat there high on the shelf, safely out of my reach. I even kept the packaging, so I could transport it with care when I needed.

Four months ago
I broke the hourglass. Again.
I would love to explain how it happened, but I don't understand it myself. A lot of elements were involved, including the life-size skeleton in my room, a string of fairy lights, the clock reading 12:24 am and of course, me. It was very much like a scene out of one of the 'Final Destination' movies.

I cleaned up, feeling sorry for myself as one of the glass pieces tore into the skin of my thumb. A lot of self-depreciating talk, a FaceTime call to mum, a strong sense of deja-vu and journalling later I finally went to bed feeling miserable.

The next day, G asks me, "What's the bandaid on your finger? What happened?"
I acted like I had no idea, and somehow G and the others believe it. I thought to myself, "Wow, everyone has very low expectations of my cerebellum."

Three months ago
J is sitting on my bed, telling me something that had happened earlier that day. I'm at my desk, listening to him and doing something on my laptop. He stops mid-rant and says, "Niv, where's the hourglass?"

I didn't want J to think I didn't value the hourglass by admitting to the truth. I valued it so much that I lived in denial of its absence. So, I stammer, "Oh, um my room in my parent's house looked a bit barren so I left it there."

That night, I ordered another hourglass to replace it. The new one arrived and it is at least 2 feet in height. If this one falls off the shelf, I could kill someone. This thought made me laugh and I had had enough. All the lying and scheming had gone too far. I already lost blood, my peace of mind, and an hourglass. I called G and J and confessed to everything.

They laughed and told me that all the lying was sweet but very unnecessary. G told me, "It's okay, we'll just buy you another one." J said, "You can keep breaking it, and we'll keep buying it for you. That can be a tradition."

I am very grateful for that acceptance. In a way, I'm glad I broke it. Both times. After briefly crying over spilt milk, I realise that the milk was always meant to spilt. This doesn't necessarily mean that it is wasted. There was a time when I had to be flown back to England whilst on a holiday due to my mistake, when my family and friends have gone out of their way to help me fix things without a single groan. Falling down was an accessory for me to reaffirm my faith in the cast of my life.

I did break the hourglass twice, we spent an entire day being a whole year early for a concert, we turned back after an hour into a road trip to Scotland when my sister thought she left the straightener running at home (she hadn't). You can't choose these detours, but you can choose your actions. You could yell at your loved ones, comfort them, cry or laugh with them. Even if these actions don't change the story, it will change the narrative. Is it going to be a bad memory or a funny story you recall in parties?