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3:33 pm and I sit on the couch facing five windows side by side. Strangely, there is a door on side to the left of the first window on the left side. Glass, with one of those door handles that looks like a silver finger, bent at the joint. Maybe it was Victorian or Regency Era type of style.

In front of me, there is a long table, with three panes of glass, each separated by the wood that the table was made from. The wood itself was a little old and weathered, but still strong. Permanent. A mountain.

The couch that I sit on is a little ratty. If I am right, it has been passed down through the generations, so I can understand its worn look. Honestly, it is not comfortable. Some would call it junky. Some would toss the whole couch in the compactor and call it a day.

The couch and table are sitting on a muted, multicolored rug that covers the cool, hexagonal-shaped tiles. Not the small ones you may think of. No, these huge, almost like you could play a game of hopscotch.

Looking out the windows at the gated backyard, verdant, lush, with the roses starting to bloom from rose bushes. One has bloomed. The others are buds just waiting to burst forth with the beautiful pinkish-red color, instead of blood red. I remember the days we spent mulching and working together at the magical space we created.  We had consecrated it. We named it 33. The numbers were special to us; but you, in particular. The nights we spent in the gazebo, lit with white Christmas tree lights, fan keeping us cool from the humid nights—those halcyon days were peaceful, serene, and honest.

Getting up, I go into another room; the grief is overwhelming. Anxiety rises, heavy breathing, can’t get air, suffocating. Tears and snot running down my face, splattering on the floor, snot on my hand. I am having  a panic attack. I think I am going to throw up. I try the five senses thing my therapist taught me. But none of this is taking away your memory. Withered, and in extreme agony.

I remember your smell. Not pleasant, but yours as of recent times. I was scared. You looked at me, begging me, begging me. Crying dry tears, mouth dry, lips cracked. Skin thin and sunken. Sullen eyes, the liquid green now clouded, as if covered by cobwebs.

I was at my breaking point, and so were you. You kept begging me, begging me,

Pleading with me.

I couldn’t look you in the eyes that night. Storms were ripping through the sky, as if it knew what was going on. So much pain you have been through. So much madness. And me, suffering, but along for the ride. Tree limbs cracking under the weight of the wind.

Lightning flashes burst through the windows, as we were watching what would be your last storm. You marveled, though all that came out of your mouth was spittle, stuck, now to your chin.

I remember the way you turned to look at me, just as the pillow hit your face. You writhed, pushed, fought for the life you asked me, repeatedly, to end. I surprised you. I was surprised at my strength in this moment. No weakness, no pity, no sorrow. Just cold, calculated, decisive, death.  Conclusion. Snuffed Out. Final. Ultimo. Dernier. Ase taken.

You were strong in your final moments, and I would be strong in mine.

 I got in my car and started driving. That is when I heard the explosion. I didn’t even lookback. I knew what happened. Me. And now, my new will begin at 3:33 AM.

/

Happy April 1. Today is the beginning of National Poetry Month, the largest literary event worldwide. This year’s edition will be its 30th. Happy Birthday!!!

The inspiration behind this poem was simple. I was at a friend’s house and was looking out the window towards the back yard. I then looked at my phone. It was 3:33 pm. And I ran with it!! Enjoy!!!