The Routine of After

Counting hours, to what, I don’t quite know. Looking forward to an end: to the day, to the week. I waited for the end of winter, followed by summer, then fall, and now winter again. Waiting to finalize the finish line of my marriage, the end of the life I dreamt. To the guilt that I couldn’t keep safe—first my body, my career, my love.

I am noting nothing philosophical here. I am looking forward to the end of the usual day-to-days as well.

I can’t wait for my packet of cornflakes to be finished, but my grocery-run loop has to end, too. I rush conversations to their finish line when Ma calls from home. I rushed even the solo trip I took for a mental health break.