The thing about life is
we're all walking around with timers
ticking down inside of us.
Usually, they're silent and faceless--
it's easy to forget
they're counting down.
You always imagine you have
enough seconds to last you
80, 90 years,
and then the timer will dial to zero
when you're warm in your bed
surrounded by family,
maybe at night after Thanksgiving dinner,
when your belly is full of
red wine and honey glazed ham.
Even if once in a while you'll have the macabre thought
"I might get hit by a bus tomorrow,"
but by dinnertime
you'll have forgotten your resolution
to live life well,
and gone back to watching reruns of
The Walking Dead.
But when you know
that the cancer inside of you has an 80% chance
of coming back
and killing you in the next 5 years--
maybe it'll be 2 years
or 2 months
or 5 years and 1 day--
the ticking becomes audible.
You still don't have the timer face.
You just walk around,
listening to the life
tick tick ticking out of you,
trying to not
let the uncertainty paralyze you,
trying to not
flinch with every jarring advance of the second hand,
trying to not
lose your mind,
as you fight the instinct
to walk around with your eyes squeezed shut,
bracing for the impact with death,
because any second could be your last.
