Taking Measurements
1 Minute Read Time
After he left, I found it difficult
to focus on any one task. I bathed
at noon, drove to the community pool
only to turn back, knelt in the
fenced-in garden to weed
but pulled up only roots.
In the bathroom, I spun a Q-tip
until my ear bled. When the children
quizzed me on state capitals, I confused
Boise and Helena.
My daughter slept watchfully beside me.
That spring was the weather unit.
The children filled mason jars with water,
devoted themselves to recording the slow
diminishment,
day by day.
Between pickups they grew older,
pretending the indifference
they wished for. Only for a moment,
scanning the cars, did they seem
like children again,
leaning forward despite themselves
to see if his car, instead of mine,
might appear in the carpool line.
Read more from Issue 20.2.
