Not So Lovely Poems

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I close my eyes and hold my hands over my ears. Tick. Tick. Tick. Too scared to move my hand, as even a flick of a wrist or a tip of my head would stop the ticking from continuing. I wish to bathe in the sound, as repetitive and simple as it may be. I think back to the night that we heard pop would die, we were told only days or even hours. The silence as we sat in the room, pop pale and his eyes dry, he was acting tough but clearly wanted to cry. Although he lived a long life, he didn't get enough time with his wife or his kids or grandchildren. He wasn't ready to die. As we all took in the information, the silence was killing me, so i tried to listen to something else. I noticed a faint trail of a ticking clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. It went, and i was afraid that the ticking would stop, like the ticking was pop's timeline, for that was the only thing on my mind. The day we left, I had only one thing on my mind. Pop was going to die. The clocks gave me my stability. The once irritating and annoyingly repetitive ticks each second, they became my therapy.

I like to think back to that night. To imagine the ticking sounds until it's drummed into my mind, and i dont have to imagine, only listen. I like to think back to when he wasn't gone, when everything was a lighter shade of gray.

I remember so little but so much about him. His favourite lollies. His favourite game. The easter bunny he bought each year that he always left on the cupboard until next easter, when he would eat the old one and wait for the new, up on the cupboard. I miss the little things, and I miss him.

The ticking was the only thing that could make me sleep that night.