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18 March 2007 @ 07:30 am
Theatrical Muse: Week 170: Question 170  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 872


Time.


It is reputed, or so I have heard, that time heals all wounds. It is a nice thought to have, that the passing of single moments, alone, can heal anything through it’s happening, from broken bones, to broken souls. That, if you watch a clock turn so many times, that eventually, things will have changed, and you will be better. I’d like to say that, in part, this statement is not exactly correct. While it seems repetitious of me, to spin out the same old story again, I am a New Yorker, through and through, and it is of a habit that what has happened to me, both significant and tragic, stays within my mind in very much the same way as a piece of chocolate cake does on the thighs. Lovely, or not so lovely, and something which, nonetheless, is sticky, both inside the body and outside of it, if that makes sense. I know it probably doesn’t, so I go on further and elaborate with more deliberate words.

What has happened to me within my life, those momentous occasions, children born, promotions achieved, my marriage, certain birthdays and celebratory events, stay within my mind, prominent memories of yesteryear. These are things that have built up within my body to form who I am as a person, that have taught me important life lessons and so on an so forth, that hang on me and make me develop as an intelligent being and reasonable individual. I am a good person, painted by these moments but I am also marred with less enjoyable pieces of time, which, nonetheless, have gradually built themselves into making me who I am right now, today, at this very moment. The passing of time, really does create a hold of experiences within us, a kind of collection of things only gained by empirical means.

I am a widower, however, and someone who has lost two children to an act of pure, unadulterated terrorism that killed hundreds of people, both as a result of the planes crashing into the Towers, and what happened after it, as a result. I have seen devastation, smoke, fires and dead bodies firsthand because, after a bit of time, I went to help fight flames and sort through the wreckage. I have some scars on my arms from those moments where I helped lift chunks of concrete and sort through the pockets of dead bodies, all singed flesh and sharp things embedded into the skin. So now, I see time in a slightly different way. No longer am I left to see it as a mark of another year of my marriage, or another developmental milestone reached by my sons. If I look at it, the passing of time fills itself with other points now, the next double shift, the next dinner together with friends, another day, week, month, year, that I have survived without them, relatively happy and always trying to improve on that. Never forgetting, though, never, ever, forgetting.

The way I look at it, time does not heal all wounds. The way I consider it, the passing of time, only lessens pain. While it may heal, in some way, for people who have suffered a broken bone, or the death of someone loved or treasured, time does not bring them back to what they were like before the event. To be honest, it can only improve on what they are after it, to a point where they may hopefully be able to manage themselves again as newly whole people. Time heals the superficial wounds, the need to cry, the bone cracked in two, but it doesn’t change the fact that the wound has been caused in the first place, that a new and inherent weakness, changing on a scale of strength from day to day, moment to moment, has been created.

Time helps to heal wounds, but it is the world, our Earth, our people and our environment, in response to time, that also makes the biggest difference. When we are sad, we are all shrugging shoulders and huddled motions, silent faces, perhaps. When we are happy, we stand tall, we smile, we move with more ease, perhaps. In a hundred years, with no direct line continuing on from me, to someone else, without my genetics continuing, there will be no one left who I physically contributed to the occurrence of. By name will be in places, in a birth register here, on a plaque of the people who helped that day, when death and terror rained from the skies, but that plaque may have long fallen since then, and be turned into scrap. So while I consider whatever force I have, to be enduring, somewhere, somehow, what I will do with the rest of my time spent alive, is something, anything at all, because I have a gift. While time is busy lessening my wounds and working on turning my hair a deeper shade of less brown and more gray, I will live. I will live, and I will continue, and I will have some form of jubilant happiness that time, in its many incarnations, has not managed to rob me of. For that I am grateful, impeccably so.
 
 
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