These days, I’m always about an inch away from crying.
Mom’s gone; honeymoon’s over; the Big House is being hocked.
The family’s dead.
It was cremated with her; half its soul urged into the urn-
I wanna go, too, Momma, so I don’t drape you demise around me like a coat of arms.
My patience for the sick hearted patients in my home
wears thin and tight
like the skin of that poor dead cow on the percussion.
I’m hurting too; I have no strength left for you.
The Januaries, the Junes, the Julys just cruise by without a single regard for human regrets;
they are unconcerned with how the width of the chasm is determined by the depths of the pain.
They are too busy adjusting the orbital patterns and changing the seasons to even bother.
Time assaults me these days;
I was twenty yesterday but I blinked by mistake
and now a quarter century has passed.
I am miles away from my childhood by way of earnest hours of adversity
but lately, I’m always about an inch away from crying.
Submitted by: Abagail Liu