Lost Hour

I keep wondering if it means something

That I can barely remember what happened

This week in her office

I know we talked about Monday

An absolute shit show of a day

Triggers and dissociation, hours of weeping

While simultaneously being a surprising productive day of work

Might have made interesting television viewing

Well, at least in a brief montage

You don’t want to go through nine hours of watching that

Believe me, I was there

 

Everything from her office is fuzzy except for the pile

Of crumpled Kleenex I remember gingerly throwing

Out of the end of the carefully observed 60 minutes

Or maybe it was 55—I did need to pay

It is one thing to cry alone in my office

With my door closed and locked

It is quite another to have witnesses

If I were a sociopath, she would have to go

After witnessing that break down

 

So that 60 (55) minutes of the day are a blur

But the walk back to my office is oddly clear

I became obsessed with the idea that I was going to die

Imminently

Probably hit by a car

Because the traffic around the University is terrible

And I am distracted and in my head

 

I cannot get the image of my bloody, broken body

Lying in the middle of the road out of my head

Unable to speak, consciousness fading

But knowing that this is the end

I picture a kind Samaritan holding my hand

Looking suitably concerned and sad

While we wait pointlessly for the ambulance to arrive

Which now that I think about it

Seems to be taking a really long time given

How close I work to three hospitals

I know that I should be thinking of my kids, my loved ones

But suspect that I will mostly be thinking, “Fuck this hurts” and “This sucks”

Followed immediately by “What underwear am I wearing?

Please don’t let them have holes.  At least allow me this amount of dignity.”

 

Even in this moment my first thought

Is whether my husband will remember to call work

Answer my personal emails, post something on Facebook

So that the people who depend on me

Know that I will not be living up to expectation

As I walk the city streets, filled with existential dread

I worry about whether I have left anything embarrassing

On my work computer

Whether anyone will be able to figure out my filing system

That I suspect only makes sense to me

 

Will my family want anything from my office?

Maybe the two framed photographs and the Totoro figures

That my friend Jane brought me back from Japan

And maybe my headphones

They are nice headphones

Oh and there’s that library book in my backpack

Someone should return that

 

I picture different groups of friends getting the news

Some tears shed I’m sure, maybe some shock

Or cringing over the circumstances of my demise

Maybe they will write nice tributes about me

On my Facebook page

Before my husband takes it down

Because he and the kids find it morbid

What haunts me the most

As I walk back from the lost hour (55 minutes)

Is how easily the universe and time will seal back around

The space I used to occupy, forgetting me,erasing me

As though I never existed at all

15 thoughts on “Lost Hour

  1. I really like this one though its filled with sadness. On a side note the mention of totoro made me smile, my daughter just watched the film 4 days in a row. She loves the cat bus! I know probably not relevant to your poem but it shows me how ideas spark off another’s writing. Take care D.

    Like

    1. I tried to balance the sadness with humor but its been a tough week. Small details are important– they help us connect with each other. My favorite Studio Ghibli movies are Spirited Away and Howl’s Moving Castle. She is still too young for them but something to look forward to.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Although this is dark and sad at times, I appreciate traveling through your thoughts as you contemplate very hard things and mundane reality. That is the way it is. You capture this well.

    Like

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