2:35

It's 2:35 in the morning. It's watching the clock. It's wondering if this night ever will end. 

It's the longest of nights. 

There is no second hand of old. Don't we all yearn for those days? When we could watch the seconds pass. 

Now everything moves so fast.

Yet slow. Shivering in a warm shower, beefy legs barely hold you up. Your knees would buckle but for your hand on the wall.

Shoring you up.

Praying. Swearing. How fragile you are. How fragile life is. How precious. 

Like the morning. Like the sun. 

You picture your morning cup of coffee. The bitterness of your coffee cut by one sugar cube, okay two. 

You wobble into bed, curl up. Towel in mouth.

Your husband snores. The neighbors blast sad Spanish songs, the music echoing into the sky. The vibrations travel across the landscape. 

What used to be a quarry feels like a graveyard.

Is this what you needed to wake you up? Pain so deep it rocks you to your bones. Biting down on the towel you think, this is how your dad must have felt before he let go. 

But you won't let go. 

You can't. Life won't let you. There's too much left. Too much left you think, as you bite down again.