Plus Seven Minutes

Plus Seven Minutes

Chasi Shochet

The clocks in our house were always wrong. My parents are sticklers for time. We showed up to l’chayims long before the chassan and kallah, and would stand outside the hairdresser’s shop before the secretaries were there to open the gates. To be that on time, you actually need to be early. And in order to be early, the clocks need to be wrong.

Every glowing time-teller in our house was set at least seven minutes fast. “You have no excuses for being late to school,” my mother would say when all six of us barreled through the kitchen at once.

She’s right — the clocks were wrong, so even if I were three minutes late, I’d still be two minutes early. But that calculation doesn’t account for the time it takes to calculate the actual time. How much longer did I have until I’d be late for school?

If the clock says 8:13, what time is it really? What’s 13 minus 7… what’s 13 minus 7, my tired brain would wonder.  By the time I gave up on the math, three more minutes had passed.