Seven to Eight

The return to routine. A dull knife, the kind that doesn't cut. A balm perhaps? We'll see. At this point it's drudgery on top of sorrow. But it's early yet.

And speaking of early, I've taken to watching the clock, waiting for 7:08 a.m., the exact moment of Dad's passing. It's become magical to me, a time of movement from one world to the next.

In fact, the whole hour is that way, the hour from seven to eight a.m. It's permeable now, bridging the now with the hereafter.

And so, because I'm in that hour now, and for Dad's sake, I take some deep breaths, I square my shoulders, I move on with the day.