Saving Daylight

My license plate says 'DRMRGAL'.  I've had it since I turned 16, got my license, and gratefully (though admittedly, not at first) accepted the Ford Tempo that my grandparents were willing to fetch for me.  It squealed when I made right turns, at any speed.  I gradually learned to enter the high school lot and maneuver to my parking spot using only left turns.     I had my license plate all figured out well before the big day, periodically (aka obsessively) checking the DMV website to see if it was available.  At that point, I had only been a "drummer" for three years.  Yet, it was the part of my identity that I most wanted to share with my fellow highway acquaintances.  Did you see what I just did there?  I put "drummer" in quotations.  As in, I had only been a sort of drummer or a so-called or only self-declared drummer.   Today, while pumping gas before a stretch of three piano lessons, the guy at the pump in front of me ...

   It’s almost here.   The one hundred and twenty-fifth day.   The joyous reunion.   The closure so desperately needed.   The open window to the closed door.   The revival.   The restoration.   That little clock in my car will no longer force me to do math on my way to everywhere, subtracting one hour for the obvious and 11 minutes for whatever magical phenomenon makes time speed up over the course of a year.   I won’t have to explain my little quirk to passengers, and they won’t have to laugh awkwardly “with me”.    The other clocks in my house get to happily race ahead like a little girl running with a pinwheel through a meadow.   Where before they beeped in annoyance, they now gleefully chirp as my fingers press the buttons, awakening them from their humdrum lull.   My happiness is confirmed in the magic of cell phones and computers that automatically update the time; they’re on my side, and I ...