There are 20 minutes left in this day, and I’m ready not to think anymore.
All I want to do- were I unhampered by all these pressing eyes- is to sit and think, staring at nothing in particular, about your face. I wonder how it’s changed since you’ve been gone? I say that you’ve been gone because you left, even though it was more of a literal inevitability than a gesture of abandonment. It didn’t feel any better.
15 minutes left.
I think about you meeting my mother (“I make sense now, don’t I?”), about taking you to Belgrade, you shaking hands with my father, you smiling warmly at my sister standing, hands folded, solemnly during Church. I would go, for you.