I Wasted Time

I wasted time. Now Time wastes me.

I did not ask the questions. I waited until there was no more waiting.

Fitting pieces together had never been my forte. As a child I was
soon bored with Jigsaws. The thrill of completion was soon
overtaken by disappointment at the completed picture. The balloon
once popped leaves tattered memories.

Death leaves us with slivers. We scrabble to find scraps but see no
clear way to put them together. We unearth missing bits. The bits
which prove she loved, she lived.

Rummaging we unearth letters received, some written but not sent.

Cracked, creased photographs wobble into view. Some familiar faces,
others not.

Certificates, awards, receipts, scraps of paper, indecipherable words
hang in the air. What do they mean? Why have they been kept?
Secret codes or messages for the living?

Deeds, house documents, with dates, all filed.

Tablets, medicines and potions aplenty enough to equip a pharmacy.

A once-pristine house now dishevelled sits alone.

The pieces assembled. Time to determine which piece goes where.

Time spent. Someone else holds the missing pieces.

Myrna Moore

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