When I awoke, a year had passed.
Don’t ask me where it went; I couldn’t tell you. The earth kept spinning as I drifted in a fugue, beginning at 1:07 a.m., June 2, 2013.
That was the day my mama died.
“Let’s call it at 1:10 a.m.,” Nurse A said to Nurse B, but my aunt and I knew better. We had both heard her breathe her last, both had looked at the clock, and then, each other.
They rounded up. The nurses rounded up the moment my mother left me, as if she had stayed three precious minutes longer than she actually did.
And from that rounded-up moment on, the rest of my life has been a blur.
That summer, as I drifted away, winter blew in and made a place to stay.
When I wrote those words in June of 2014, it was the first anniversary of my mother’s death. That was as far as I could get.
Time and again, I’ve returned to finish.
Nothing, nada, zilch.
Yet, here I sit, my fingers poised on the keyboard, trying once more.