Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
Days spent in grief pass slowly,
like wading through tangled up honey.
It’s tedious and unrewarding work —
a kind of exertion that deserves its own name.
The week has crawled to Sunday afternoon,
and we are thinking about the week ahead (again).
“It’s time to look at the taxes,” my husband sighs.
He points to the calendar and gently reminds me it’s now March.
“Oh, that’s right,” I shake my head, in a little bit of disbelief. “Nevermind.”
I hear a branch of his heart snap off.
look at the paralyzed clock,