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.
“Taxes aren’t until April, Charlie,” I reassure him.
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.”
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.”
He shuffles some papers and mutters to himself,
“Alright, let’s take a look at this new tax code.”
“Wait,” I interject indignantly. “What new tax code?”
He offers me a little smile that is so sad
I hear a branch of his heart snap off.
I hear a branch of his heart snap off.
“It’s just something from December, Kath.”
I shrug,
look at the paralyzed clock,
look at the paralyzed clock,
and return to my embroidery for Tinsley.
Less Than 1%: Surviving My Stillborn 