Through the Hourglass Chloe Hoyt

Through the Hourglass

Chloe Hoyt

I am not a math test, nor am I one of the great scientists from your textbooks. I am not a mathematician, nor am I a perfectly linear graph. We’ve met many times. Introduced at birth, I became your best sense of self. I walked with you as you took your first steps, and I was present the first time you ever felt pain -- as a signal in your brain, sending tears down your cheeks as the shock ran through your veins. I am the reason you know how to color inside the lines, and how not to fall off your bicycle. I am the reason you know how to smile eighteen different smiles. The reason you run your hands through the water, to feel the energy in the waves gliding through your fingers, is because of me. I am the reason you can remember your sister’s name, and put puzzle pieces back inside their frame. I am the logic in your head that convinces you to procrastinate your homework ‘til the day it is due. I am your vocabulary, and the verbose, secret signals you exchange with your best friend through a simple exchanged look in the other’s direction, silently saying, “Isn’t he cute?, ” “Am I trying too hard?, ” or “Can you believe she said that to me?” I am the one who helps you win at checkers, and the reason you can’t keep track of all of the rules in a poker game. I am analytical — you depend on me to decode sequences and complicated Latin texts. I am probability, and, without a doubt, your best bet on learning their name. I am the reasoning in your head, and the blush in your cheeks, that stops you mid-reply every time the boy you like says good morning to you. I am how you know when to exit a conversation, and your fight or flight response in every scary situation. I am the way you make your parents smile on their bad days. I am how you get up in the morning and the reason you sometimes go to sleep too late, just to stay on the phone with them for an hour longer. I am the seconds, and the minutes, and the hours, and the months, and the years that pass you by. I am how you made time, and how you know that it runs out. I am not one of the artists from your history books, nor am I one of the many legends you have posted on your walls. Many names have I — passion, desire, sentiment — but these matter not. By now, you and I are well acquainted. You know me not by name, but by the strange and sudden beating of your heart, clinging fiercely to you through every rush of emotion. I am the reason you feel the need to lie when you’re afraid of getting in trouble. The reason you yearn to be wanted -- by him, by her, by anyone, or even everyone -- is because of me. I am the version of yourself that are trying to mold into — sugar, spice, and everything nice -- pieces of who you’re told to be, to act, and to look like. I am the very feeling that sends your heart into your throat when