I found out that my father had fallen off a bridge on his way home
slowly. I was eight, and those things that moved fast sometimes
slowed down or sped up the things that moved
slow did the same, so that I could sit and watch.
My father was
slow.

The door opened
slow, painfully
slow, and my mother fell at the same instant, her hand still on the handle, white knuckled, gripping for life. She did not make a sound, she just fell.
Slowly.

A police officer stuck his arm out, stiff, as if to catch her, but it was too late and he stood there, his arm out. My mother turned to me, kneeling, and said that my father was gone off a bridge in the dark and that he would never come home.
And I was standing there, my arms out, I am standing there,
slowly walking towards my mother, my face at hers, and I hug her, gently and
slowly, not wanting to crush her.
I was not crying I am not crying because I never learned to dance quite right and every time I danced we danced
slowly.
And papa had waltzed off the bridge and his paycheck waltzed off the bridge said my mother so our house would waltz off the bridge and she was talking so
slowly and quietly so I could barely hear her as the world receded
slowly and as our home left us
slowly.

I was not so slow when I was accepted to college, or was married, or had children or grandchildren. I had my first and last drink at seventeen, and the world moved… slowly. And I was sick, I am sick, but I stopped before the world slid by like so much engine oil through my fingertips. Now it is fast, it is so so fast, and I wish now that for just a moment the world could move
slow.