Hourglasses

Late in the summertime, an old man with an aged face, a beard of ashen gray, and eyes as old as time, studied a young man sitting on a park bench. The young man’s attention was fixed on his newspaper—he didn’t notice he was being carefully watched.

The old man had been observing him for some time now. He casually watched many people in the park—in the way one observes the changing of the seasons—but the young man had caught his full attention earlier that afternoon when he was strolling through the park.

The young man was finely dressed in a suit and tie. He had dark hair and a haughty expression. An air of importance was about him, and he took no notice of other people walking through the small park, even though there were many.

He walked toward a young mother struggling to comfort her screaming child, carry a diaper bag, and pick up a toy from the ground—all at the same time. She was clearly overwhelmed and in need of help. The young man simply brushed past her. He ignored her—as if stopping to help wasn’t worth his time.

The old man quickly rushed over to help the young mother. He stooped to pick up the toy from the ground—wincing at the effort—then made silly faces at the screaming child. The tears stopped. The grateful mother smiled, and the old man smiled back.

Then, he shuffled down the paved path through the park, searching for the younger man. He soon found him farther down the path, sitting on a park bench reading his newspaper. The old man had been watching him ever since.

He’d seen many people like the young man in his day and age. People who sadly—for whatever reason—thought they had no time to help someone else. The truth was, they had the time. They just didn’t have the desire. That came partly from living in a world that constantly told them to look out for themselves and no one else. That was the only way they’d make something of themselves in life.

The old man knew that just wasn’t true.

Most people walked through life with that single-minded, self-serving focus. It didn’t matter who they hurt or what they did—so long as they were the ones who got ahead in life. They couldn’t see anything or anyone else around them unless they in some way helped them get ahead in life. Once that service was complete, they’d be forgotten once more.

If someone were to show them those people they so often ignored or didn’t notice, perhaps they’d begin to understand. Perhaps they’d see the people around them—and how their lives were impacted by the choices they did or didn’t make.

But if no one ever showed them, they’d likely never realize it on their own. They’d simply keep moving through life with that self-centered focus, trampling others underfoot in their desperate struggle to get ahead.

The old man nodded to himself and walked over to the young man sitting on the park bench. His heart hammered in his chest, but he knew what he needed to say. He sat down next to the young man abruptly—even then, the young man didn’t notice his presence.

“What if you could see the entirety of a person’s life—just by looking at them?” the old man asked.

The young man closed his newspaper briefly and glanced over at him. He didn’t mean to, but when he did, he locked eyes with the old man. His ancient eyes were both captivating and unnerving. It was as if the old man could actually see his whole life—just by looking at him.

“I’d think I was going crazy,” he said with a note of finality that made it rather clear he wanted nothing more to do with the old man and his strange attempt at conversation. The young man broke eye contact and went back to his newspaper.

The old man merely chuckled. “That’s what most people say. The mortal mind wasn’t made to comprehend such things.” He shifted on the park bench as he reached into his jacket pocket. “We must use other methods instead.”

Despite himself, the young man glanced over, out the corner of his eye, to see what the old man was doing. He had set a small hourglass on the wooden bench between them.

“There,” he said with a note of satisfaction. He always kept an hourglass with him for such a time as this. A demonstration was needed.

The young man frowned. “There what?”

The old man gestured at the hourglass filled with tiny grains of sand. “That’s what it’s like to see the entirety of someone else’s life. Look at that hourglass and you’ll see.”

He overturned it; set it down.

“There—the first grain of sand falls—that marks their beginning. The first breath taken; the clock begins.”

Together, the two watched in silence as the sand at the top of the hourglass fell to the bottom half. For some reason, the young man was transfixed—his attention fully captured. When the last grain of sand had fallen, the old man pointed again.

“There—the final grain of sand falls—that marks their end. The last breath exhaled; the clock stops.”

The old man regarded the hourglass with a careful eye. He looked deep in thought. It was almost as if he’d forgotten the young man was next to him. “An hourglass is as apt a visual as any, I’d like to think,” he murmured.

He gazed out at the park full of people and noted them with a somber look. “Not just to show the progression of time’s relentless march through life, but for the person as well.”

The young man folded his newspaper and looked out as well, taking in the people he noticed—some for the first time. But he still didn’t really see them. “Let me guess,” he said. “People are like hourglasses because they come in all shapes and sizes. Some are elaborately made—works of great beauty and breathtaking artistry. Others are simply made—works of utility and necessity.”

The old man shook his head with saddened disappointment. “Vain words, boy. I’m not talking about their size or shape. Rather, I’m talking about what makes them all alike. Do you know what that is?”

“They’re all filled with sand?” the young man asked sardonically.

The old man nodded slightly, but he still looked sad. “Yes and no. Yes—they are all filled with sand. No—they do not all have the same amount of sand. Some have more than others. What truly makes them all alike is this—”

He paused and turned to face the younger man. He explained with a simple sentence.

“They’re fragile.”

The young man frowned, not quite understanding him. The old man saw his confusion, and without another word, he pushed the small hourglass off the park bench. Both men watched as it fell to the pavement below.

It wasn’t very far to fall, but the hourglass shattered all the same. The grains of sand once trapped inside spilled out, scattered among the shards of the broken glass.

For a moment, the old man and the young man sat in silence. They watched as the afternoon wind carried the grains of sand away from the wreckage.

The old man sighed and reached down to pick up the broken pieces gingerly. He stared down at the remnants of the tiny hourglass in the palm of his hand. Then, he stood slowly.

The young man was startled at his abruptness as he turned to walk away. “Wait!” he called out. “Why did you sit down next to me? What were you trying to show me?”

The old man turned back to face him. His expression was grieved, yet empathetic. “Do you really not know?” Pity was in his voice.

The young man shook his head. He knew he should have known the answer. He knew it was important for some reason—that it mattered. There was something he wasn’t seeing, and he found, to his surprise, that he wanted to see it—to understand.

The old man sighed again, but his expression was curiously hopeful. “People are like hourglasses, dear boy, but it’s more than that,” he said gently.

“The sands of time eventually run out for all of them—that much is true. The desire to use that time to get ahead and make something of ourselves is powerful. But eventually, we all realize the futility of that kind of thinking. That isn’t what really matters at the end, once our time’s run out. But by the time most people realize it—it’s too late. The damage is done.”

The old man smiled faintly and gestured at the broken pieces of the hourglass in his hand.

“We’re fragile things really. All too easily we break. Sometimes people forget that. They don’t treat others with care. They brush past them and ignore them, or put them down with harsh words or hurtful actions. Slowly, cracks begin to appear in the glass. They may even shatter completely. The terrible thing is, most people aren’t even aware of the damage they’re causing.”

The old man shook his head. He stared at the young man with a distant look in his eyes. His final words were little more than a whisper, but the young man still heard them.

“What would the world look like if people saw each other differently? If people saw how fragile we really are?” he murmured. “Would it be more kind? More thoughtful and considerate? Less driven and consumed with thoughts of vain achievements and empty success? I hope so. I hope so.”

With that, the old man turned and walked away, leaving the young man sitting on the park bench, alone with his thoughts. He pondered the old man’s whispered words. They resonated deep within him, for a reason he did not fully know or understand. But he wanted to know.

He gazed out at the other people in the park and began to notice the people—their expressions of happiness or weariness. He saw how they moved through life and wondered about their hopes and dreams. He wondered what life was like for them and he tried to understand. Without realizing it, the young man began to see the world a little differently than before.

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