You didn’t leave a note, but
two days before you killed
yourself you gave me your
grandmother’s watch, told me
you never wore the dented heirloom
and it didn’t fit your slim wrists,
said, it would look better on me.
When I pointed out that it no
longer worked, you shrugged and
said simply, “time is a silly thing.”
You looked in the mirror
before you did it. You cut
off all your hair in misshapen
awkward chunks, some spots
clean to your scalp. Your mother
decided on the closed casket.
At your funeral, I stand
consumed by the list of things I
didn’t know, overwhelmed
by the uselessness of words and the
futility of remorse, devastated by
the continuance of the ordinary.
“Continuance” is previously published in To Anyone Who Ever Loved a Writer (2014) and Fevers of the Mind (2021).
One thought on “Continuance”
“…the continuance of the ordinary,” is the thing that always gets me. It’s so hard to understand how that can be.