Twenty-five weeks and four days after the death of a marriage

Each day, a little different
and every day 
 
feels mostly 
the same.
 
Blinding sun fades 
into painted skies. 
 
Someone’s high beams 
slice my windshield 
at a four-way stop
 
and I find myself sightless 
in the dusty cockpit
of a future derailed.
 
Suddenly,
my baby is speaking 
in sentences, 
 
while silver hairs appear overnight 
in the dark crease of my part. 
 
Unsurprisingly, the raw 
flesh of grief still closes 
 
as slowly 
as it ever has.