we still count the days


  1. Glenn Buttkus

    My mother died at 39 years old in 1966, like 44 years ago, and the counting never stops. I was 22 when she died, she was 17 when I was born in 1944. She died 528 months ago, 16,060 days ago, 385,440 hours ago, 23,126, 400 minutes ago, and like 13,875,849,000 seconds ago on this side of the veil, and only the length of an angel’s sigh, the width of a tear, the curve of a god’s smile right through there, on the other side. It is all bassackwards. I am now old enough to be my mother’s father, hell even grandfather, and as the decades get counted on into the future, my daughters will get older than she was. I already have books older than she was, a pair of boots, three shirts, black and white photographs; counting, counting, /individually,together/. Thanks Y, another great flood of emotion conjured up with a minimum of words.

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