Three and a half hours.
Two hundred and ten minutes
between hello
and a goodbye
no mother should ever
have to learn.
People measure time
in birthdays,
in milestones,
in anniversaries
that mark the passing
of another year.
I learned to measure yours
in minutes.
A number so small
it could fit
inside an ordinary afternoon.
An appointment.
A long drive.
A movie.
Things the world
can lose three hours to
without even noticing.
But I would have given
everything I owned
for another minute
of your life.
One more chance
to memorize
the face I had spent months
waiting to see.
One more moment
before the future
became a place
you could not follow me.
And when I think
of how little time we had,
I am angry
at every clock
that kept moving.
Because the world
was allowed
to have tomorrow.
And you
were not.
Leave a Reply