Breathe in, breathe out, start typing

Back straight, shoulders down. Straighten the computer. Stop staring at the purple walls. Light the candle once, twice, three times -- why won’t it light? -- before the flame finally catches, the scent of pine blooming among the wisps of smoke. Breathe in, breathe out. Start typing. Sunlight slants across my fingertips, and I turn to face the source impossibly far from the window. The clouds are tinged the golden white of times flown by, of the yarn of the Fates that winds tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter in your chest until you’re suffocating, asphyxiating, gasping for breath, panic turning your body to crumbling stone. The saprophytes know this process well. It’s been etched in their DNA since well before humans were graced with the knowledge of how to care for their dead. Over the eons, they’ve befriended Time and Death alike. What would I give to dance with the two as an equal partner? To sit back amongst shadows that drape me like a blanket rather than grip me like a vise? Too much time has passed. Too many seconds lost. Time, time, time, slipping away from my scrambling fingers. Can’t grip the yarn; too silky, too precious. Clotho, skills refined through eons unknown, wove quality too fine for mortals to grasp. Clear thoughts like an etch-a-sketch, sending fireglow hair flying. Breathe in, breathe out. Start typing. The words that appear are damn near incomprehensible, shrouded and hidden by ghosts of memories weaving through my thoughts. A fog-veiled lake house dimly lit by candles and the fire in my eye as I take my grandma “exploring” over forest-colored carpet and around oak tables, a land in which she’s long since gained familiarity. How do I rectify that vision with what’s facing now? 112 feather-light pounds of gray hair and fading eyes, reality’s cruel reward for a life brimming with purpose and love. I’m scrambling to keep up with all the changes, but my grasp is slipping. Suddenly she’s falling faster than we thought. The heater’s white noise is the only constant, handfuls of M&Ms the only distraction. I’m all too aware of the bills I’m racking up, too cognizant that synthetic dopamine only shoves away what’s real, but I’m crumbling too fast to care. Shaky breath in. Straighten the computer. Stop staring blankly at the purple walls. There’s too much to do; the future’s jumping down your throat and running away. Start typing.