Hugo the hippo was always about to do the good things. He would play with his little sister — later. He would visit Grandma Hippo — tomorrow. He would float lazily in the cool green river — next week, for sure.
But first, there was worrying to do. And fussing. And a great deal of slow, distracted wallowing in the mud, thinking about all the things he might do someday.
"Hugo, will you play with me?" his little sister asked one morning, holding out a lily pad ball.
"Later," Hugo mumbled, half-buried in mud. "I'm busy right now." He wasn't, really. But later always felt easier than now.
An old crocodile had been watching Hugo do this for a long time. That afternoon, the crocodile floated over slowly and said, "Come, young one. There's something on the riverbank I think you should see."
Curious, Hugo heaved himself out of the mud and followed. On the riverbank sat an old, strange object — a glass shape, narrow in the middle, with fine golden sand slipping steadily from the top into the bottom.
"It's called an hourglass," said the crocodile. "Watch the sand."
Hugo watched. Grain by grain, the sand slipped down — smooth, steady, never pausing, never stopping.
"Can we turn it over and refill the top?" Hugo asked.
"No," said the crocodile gently. "That's the thing about this sand. It only falls one way. It never pauses. And it never, ever refills."
Hugo watched the sand slip, and a strange feeling stirred in his chest.
"Most creatures think they have a short time," the crocodile went on softly. "But that isn't quite it. It isn't that we have so little time, Hugo. It's that we spend so much of it on things that don't matter — on 'later,' on fussing, on someday. And all the while, the sand keeps slipping."
Hugo thought about all his laters. Later with his sister. Tomorrow with Grandma. Next week in the river. And he looked at the sand, slipping and slipping and never coming back.
"The good things I keep saving for later," he said slowly. "The sand for those is slipping away too. Right now. While I sit in the mud."
The crocodile just nodded.
Hugo turned and looked back toward the river, where his little sister was floating alone, still holding her lily pad ball, waiting the way she'd been waiting all morning.
And Hugo didn't say "later." He heaved himself up, hurried down the bank, and called out, "Hey! Do you still want to play? Right now?"
His sister's whole face lit up. "Right now?"
"Right now," said Hugo, and he splashed into the cool green river beside her, and they played until the sun went gold.
That evening, muddy and happy and tired in the best way, Hugo understood something he would carry the rest of his life. The sand would always keep slipping — for everyone, always. He couldn't stop it. But he could choose, every single day, to spend a little of it on what truly mattered.
And starting today, he would.
