Lost Hour (revisited)

I keep wondering

what it means

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

dissociation

hours of weeping

while simultaneously

being surprising productive

at work

Might have made interesting television viewing

at least in a brief montage

You don’t want to watch nine hours of that

Believe me

I was there

 

Everything from that session

is fuzzy

except for the pile

of crumpled Kleenex

I remember gingerly throwing out

at the end of the carefully observed 55 minutes

It is one thing to cry alone

in my office

door closed and locked

It is quite another

to have witnesses to my break down

If I were a sociopath

she would have to go

 

That 55 minute hour

is 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

the traffic around the University is terrible

and I am distracted

in my head

I cannot shake the image of my

bloody

broken

body

lying in the middle of the street

Unable to speak

consciousness fading

knowing that this is the end

I picture a kind Samaritan holding my hand

looking suitably concerned

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 should be thinking

of my kids

my loved ones

But suspect that I will mostly be thinking

Fuck this hurts

This sucks big time

Followed immediately by

What underwear am I wearing?

Please don’t let them have holes.  

 

Even in this moment

contemplating my

imminent demise

my thoughts quickly turn to

whether my husband

will remember to call work for me

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 expectations

 

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

the Totoro figures that 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 will be shed I’m sure

from the shock

the senselessness of it

I should be able to cross a fucking street

without getting hit by a car

Maybe they will write nice tributes

on my Facebook page

before my husband takes it down

because he and the kids find it morbid

What haunts me most

as I walk back from

the lost 55 minute hour

is how easily

the universe

time

will seal back around

the space

I used to occupy

forgetting me

erasing me

as though I never

existed

at all

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

15 thoughts on “Lost Hour (revisited)

  1. This is a poem yeah? Sorry I don’t usually read these kind of things, so I’m not very familiar with them, but I decided to read this and omg I can’t even describe the feeling it left, feeling numb and full of emotion. It was a great read 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. F*ckin’ tremendous things here. I am very glad to see your post. Thanks a lot and i’m looking forward to contact you. Will you please drop me a mail?

    Like

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