Daylight savings time, April 1989. Huddled in my warm house reading a book to my two sons, three-year-old Jonathan perched on my right knee and 18-month-old Jeremy on my left: I contemplate what it will mean to set the clocks one hour ahead later this evening. Just one hour seems immensely insignificant. Ten hours wouldn’t even be enough. My breast cancer diagnosis just four months prior – when the skies were dark by four o’clock and the world, once full of promise, crumbled around me – made me long for time to fast-forward; for it to take me to a safer place, to a failsafe future where things are straight instead of crooked.