The Lost Hour

I'm blessed with an inner clock which has served me well, usually accurate to within fifteen minutes. Tonight, it will be invaluable.

I've no desire to sleep when the time could be better spent. I'm surrounded by books, most of epic proportions. Novels I'd always intended to read..."War and Peace," "Gone with the Wind," and such.

There's also a plentiful supply of writing materials. Should I send a letter to Lizzie, my closest friend for what seems like a millennium, but to whom I haven't written in over five years? There would be too much catching up involved. Maybe my brother? Chances are, he'd never read it.

I open Margaret Mitchell's classic. Maybe I will score an individual victory and get beyond the first four pages...something I've never been able to achieve, but it's not to be. Instead, I select a personal favorite, Alcott's "Little Women."

Turning the last page, my internal timepiece signals there's another hour yet remaining. Given that, I'm surprised to find myself no longer alone. "You're too early," I say, but they decline to favor me with an answer.

"It's not yet 8 o'clock," I protest, but they tell me it is the first Sunday in April. Despite the solemnity, I smile at the irony of what will now shortly take place on the once hallowed Sabbath.

"Daylight savings time," I murmur. "Of course. Spring forward...fall back."

"Any last requests?" they ask, but I shake my head. I'm only entitled to my lost hour...and they're unable to give me that.

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