My dad would change the clocks before he went to bed on Saturday night. I would still be up, watching TV, as he bustled around at 8pm, getting everything ready for the next day. I remember sitting in church the next morning, smiling slightly at the people who rushed in late. They must not have a dad looking out for them the way mine did for me.
By the time I was out on my own, hundreds of miles away from my father, I had a cellphone that changed its own time. I remember the confusion when I woke up to one time on my phone and a different time on every other clock. I remember my first Spring in my first apartment, carrying my phone around as I changed the time on the oven, the DVD player, my oversized alarm clock that ensured I wouldn't miss a college class.
I changed the clocks Sunday morning, on the verge of afternoon, after I woke up. I changed them even though I had most likely been awake as we sprang forward. Still sipping my fourth Jack and Coke at 2am and suddenly ready for bed when time jumped forward to 3.
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