Counting time

Three minutes from now, I will be turning 41 years old.
September 13.
8:06am.

Five hours and twenty-seven minutes from now, I will be attending my aunt’s funeral.
September 13.
1:30pm.

Fifty-five days from now, she would have turned 87 years old.
November 7.

Four years and fourteen days ago, my dad—my aunt’s twin brother—passed away.
11pm.
August 31.
Sixty-eight days after that, he would have turned 83.

Ten days from now, my son will be 9 years old.
9:25pm.
September 23.

One-hundred-and-fifty days from now, my daughter will celebrate her Bat Mitzvah.
5:45pm.
February 10.

Eighty-eight days from now, my mom will turn 76.
December 10.

One minute from now, I won’t be able to unthink this thinking.

I have always been someone who calculates living in units of time.
Time since. Time until.

How many hours before we have to leave?
Our flight home is tomorrow.
3:40pm.

How many birthdays has he already missed?
Four of mine.
Three of my mom’s.

How much longer until we reach this milestone?
Which one, exactly, am I holding my breath for?

I am always counting.

Sometimes the counting is quiet, passive.
It fades into the background and lets my breathing take over.
I imagine that’s my meditation practice at work.
14,504 total minutes, according to one of my apps.

Even then, I am still counting.

One day, I won’t be.
An unknown number of days and years from now.
An unknown date.

Many times since something, no time left until.

It’s funny how death makes you wax poetic about life.

I turned 41 years old an hour and six minutes ago.
September 13.
8:06am.

It took me an hour and nine minutes to write this.