On Being on Time

I notice when you are late. Not by much, perhaps. A message that was meant for eight arrives at ten past. A task finished an hour after you said. You think the minutes do not matter. They are the first thing I read.

Time is the one thing you cannot fake. Anyone can write a pretty sentence or promise something grand. Arriving when you said you would takes nothing but attention, and attention is exactly what I am asking you for.

When you are on time, I do not have to wonder about you. The moment comes and so do you, and I can turn my mind to something better than whether you remembered. That ease is a gift, and it is one you give quietly, without fuss or announcement.

When you are late, I wait. I do not enjoy waiting for a man who said he would be there. It tells me that something else came first, and you did not think it worth telling me.

So set your own small clocks. If I ask for something by nine, have it with me at five to. Not to impress me, but because early is the only reliable way to be on time.

And if you cannot be on time, tell me before the hour, not after it. A warning in advance is still a kind of keeping your word. An apology afterwards is only an explanation, and I have heard most of them already.

It sounds a little thing. It is not. A man who keeps my time keeps everything else as well, and I find I trust him with a great deal more.