Slow

Slow is a turtle making its way across the sand to bury its eggs. It is the length of time as the tides shift from high to low and back again. It is the scorching sun, melting the ice cream cones of children playing on the beach. It is a grandmother watching the kids and remembering her own youth. It is a mother cursing traffic as she heads back home from work. And a father trapped in a meeting, looking forward to the weekend. And a girl wondering if he will call. And a sixteen-year-old buying his first car. Slow is the first two minutes after waking and the last ten seconds of a long journey. And the entire day of your big night. It is the faint ticking of the clock when you'd rather be doing something else. It is the crest of anticipation. And waiting. That is always slow.