Time Marches On

tonyac2

I get mad at time as it marches on, seemingly forgetting that something devastating happened on June 26th.

It never slowed down once to take notice.

It just keeps marching on—day by day, moment by moment—keeping track of the days without him.

Constantly reminding me:

It’s been this long since I heard his voice.

This long since I touched him.

This long since I saw him take his last breath.

Time stopped for me that day, yet somehow it keeps marching on.

It never slows down enough for me to catch up. It races ahead of me while some part of me is still standing in my living room on June 26th.

You are moving too fast, Time.

I’m not ready.

Then dates begin appearing on the calendar. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays. Ordinary days that used to have him in them.

And with every one, time seems to announce again that the world has moved farther away from the last day he was here.

I want to argue with the calendar.

No. It cannot possibly be the end of August already.

It cannot have been eight weeks.

June 26th feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once.

His struggle ended that day.

Mine did not.

And maybe that is what I am fighting with: he no longer has to live by the clock, but I do.

Time carries me forward whether I am ready or not.

There are days I want to grab hold of it and say, Wait. I haven’t caught up yet. I haven’t figured out how to live this life without him.

But time does not wait.

It just keeps marching on. 

And for now, I suppose grief is learning how to walk behind it.