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Ticking
i’m glad you could make it.
it’s been awfully grey lately.
the blinds have been closed for the longest time.
eventually, the roses he gave me began to droop in their vase,
so i had to throw them away.
they say it’s bad luck to have death in the house.
i’m glad you could make it.
take a seat, make yourself at home.
i’ll force open the windows, creak open the doors.
please excuse the dust.
before, he was the one who usually did the cleaning.
but it’s okay.
death is bad luck to have in the house anyway.
i’m glad you could make it.
did I tell you they offered me pills to dull the ache?
i refused to take them, because the pain helps me remember.
that reminds me.
see that timepiece up there on the mantel?
the one with the frozen hands?
before he left, he promised me he’d fix that clock.
i know he will keep his word.
i wait every day for that clock to tick once more.
he’ll come.
i know he will.
let’s just hope that having death in the house is not bad luck.
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Inspired by Wislawa Szymborska's poem, "Identification."