Sundial

by Catriona Ward

She hates me and for a moment I hate myself, too; am filled with loathing for this mask, which I have so carefully constructed, year by year, until it has grown into me and I no longer know who the person under it is, really; whether I can take it all the way off, or whether I should.

Clocks are everywhere if you know how to recognize them. A dandelion is a clock, obviously. Rice pouring into a bowl is a clock, each grain marking the passage of time. A school assignment, an apple as it withers, a tree waiting for spring. Each of these things measures living moments, what remains before death. Tick, tock.

I came to realize, after Sundial was published, that many people think I invented Mia and Falcon’s dog experiments. Rightly, it provokes a strong, visceral reaction in readers. But what is writing for, if not to shine a light on who we are and what we’re capable of? Even if, as a species, we human beings don’t always come across well in the telling.