after the before
The strangest thing about something enormous happening
is discovering that the next day is still a Tuesday.
The sun comes through the same window.
There are dishes in the sink.
Someone somewhere is complaining about traffic.
You wake up almost surprised
that the world did not have the decency
to look different.
Yesterday, something happened
that divided your life into a before and an after.
And this morning
you still have to brush your teeth.
I think that is the part no one prepares you for.
We imagine life-changing moments
with some appropriate amount of ceremony.
A swelling soundtrack, perhaps.
Rain.
At the very least, different weather.
Instead, the refrigerator hums.
Your phone needs charging.
The cat wants breakfast.
And somehow you are expected
to participate in the mundane mechanics of being alive
while carrying something that has made you
a slightly different person than you were yesterday.
Maybe that is how life absorbs the unbearable.
Not all at once.
But through coffee.
Laundry.
Red lights.
Grocery lists.
One ordinary thing after another
quietly insisting that there is still a life
on the other side of whatever just happened.
And eventually, without noticing exactly when,
you begin living in it.