An ode to time

The clock ticks away the minutes.
August 22nd is only 16 minutes away.
Thirty-seven. One more than thirty-six. One less than thirty-eight.
I was 16 when my dad was thirty-seven.
He would have been fifty-eight this year.
But he was in the wrong place a second too soon.
The wrong place a second too late.
He will forever be fifty in the neurons that comprise the folds of my cerebral cortex.
What would he look like at fifty-eight?
My mom looks the same at fifty seven as she did at fifty,
but she is a women who likes to disguise her age with dyes and makeup and such.

What will I look like at fifty-eight?
Bald?
Fatter?
Hairier?
Definately Hairier.
Probably balder.
Hopefully not fatter.

Julianna will be 25 and Jack 23 when I am fifty-eight.
They will be grown.
Will they be happy?
Will they wonder about their grandpa who would have been seventy-nine?
Would he have outlived me?
His poor mother outlived him.

Tomorrow I will be thirty-seven.
In 9 minutes, I will be thirty-seven.
In 8 minutes, I will live another year.
In 3 minutes, I will go to sleep.
When I wake up and I am thirty-seven, I resolve to live.
I will choose to be happy.
The slate will be clean for another year.
And I will fill up the clean slate with anger and bullshit for another year.
And I will wipe it clean with my tears when I am thirty-eight.
One minute.
Hold your breath.
Go.