when I was seven
I stenciled a calendar with
purple-marker-traced boxes
on bland printer paper
and started crossing off
the dates until Christmas,
wondering how the days
were dragging.

when I was nineteen and
unemployed I watched
Youtube videos for five
minutes of distracted smirks
as a way to escape the loss
of greater things,
and watched the clock move
slowly…slowly.

My boss tells me that his
aging neighbor says,
“Every day is a Friday,”
because even after the
busyness of younger years
is gone, the minutes keep
their march and pace the same.

Someday, almost yesterday,
was Christmas.

Almost yesterday there was
laughter, and sadness, and
fear, and joy.

Now they are shattered fragments
of glass like falling sand–

images of napkins,
bright purple,
Chinese food,
red-and-green Christmas lights,
wind,
classroom windows open,
blue yarn,
warm or tear-filled eyes,
the lyrics of a slow song,

the smell of coffee when the
throb of marching minutes slows
to a heartbeat and you remember
that somewhere, out there
is eternity.