Half Past Three

I have always hated the time of half past three.
In my own personal world the definition of half past three symbolizes the possibility of creating a beautiful day growing to a small improbable chance.
I remember asking my father about the details of my birth when I was eight years old and curious to discover how I entered this so mysterious world.
With a few hmm’s and a lot of umm’s the only definite piece of information he gave me that day was that I was born in the late afternoon of half past three.
It seems odd that the time of day I hate most is the precise time in which my ever so tired mother was having her belly sliced open with a small surgical instrument to free me from her womb so I could enter a world in which I would discover to be somewhat terrifying and delightful all at the same.
I wonder if that is saying something about who I truly am and how I truly feel about how I’ve grown to both detest and idolize myself all at the same time.
Sometimes however, hating a certain object or a certain time in life is something much greater than losing the opportunity to make a day both beautiful and meaningful.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that at the tender age of 11 years old I saw my no longer best friends mother arrive home at 3:35 pm on a Wednesday afternoon slamming bathroom doors and beating kitchen bench top tables muttering the words of a person who surely hates who she is and how she has gotten so far from where she wanted to be.
Has my 11-year-old self been permanently stuck between the seven layers of my skin? Has she been transmitting signals to my unclear mind telling me at half past three in the afternoon you will lose your sense of courage to ask the boy with blonde hair how many times he lied when he told you he loved you?
I wonder how many things I could have done or in fact should have done if my seven layers of skin were instead filled with my nine-year-old self. A nine year old girl who preferred being a black and white horse who jumped over fallen tree trunks instead of a human being who’s job it was to finish homework on a Sunday night.
Unfortunately it is a human beings nature to hate at least one thing about them. If this is the one thing I permanently hate about the way I both live and think about life, I think I’m doing relatively reasonable may I say so myself!
So for the last time - It’s at half past three when a schoolteachers only desire is to battle the afternoon traffic to finally make it home so they can take off their forged smile and their lying enthusiasm.
It’s at half past three when my ever so beautiful cat seems to kill a fly or two and decides that my unusually stubby fingers are considered to be more superior to a scratching post.
And it’s at half past three when my no longer best friend’s mother once again comes home to a beaten down kitchen top table and a daughter who finally understands what her mother’s mouth is finally saying.