Emma Can't Believe it's Week Seven and Neither Can I

Time has never not been passing but it's so strange that it does.

More dust has collected, in bundles under my chair, and 

my plants have grown quietly in the background.

Clothes need washing again. I hang them up to dry by the boiler and, a few days later,

remember

to put them away. 

We are sitting and whittling by the river. Connie and I talk about keeping 

diaries, because it's easy to forget what happens.

Leaves are again falling, although the last few are holding on

tight to the branches.

Mum and I haven't spoken so often recently

(I'm still 

made of her)

I send a poem about trees and she says she thinks there’s a point

where you settle into winter. It’s beautiful as well, maybe.

On the phone,

she wants to know if I'm happy.

Joseph, who was going to India in two months,

who has now been there two weeks, 

asks me that too.

I tell them I'm content. I tell them we were whittling 

by the river yesterday, and that I'm

staying on top of work. That was Monday. 

Today, I am reading a philosophy paper by someone who seems to have descended into madness. 

I try not to descend into madness. Instead

I water the plants, again,

then go downstairs, where my friends are sitting.

We make some tea, and talk about

how fast the time goes.

12/11/24