The Clock

The Clock

I’ve done my best
To open up for business.
At least I’ve healed.
Physically, if not mentally.

I can’t get the blood off
That damned clock.
The one my husband bought.
Deep red stains,
Refuse to leave.
Testament to the horror that ensued.

He took a shot.
Only one.
That was enough.
I fell to the ground.

A gun flash.
Blood seeping from an open wound.
Barely alive.
1.20.
Lunch-time crowd just stepped in for a bite.
They beheld the horror unfold.

I watched as though in slow motion
As they started to run; children dragged along,
Fear adding speed to winged feet
In their hurry to escape the gunman.
My husband.
Disbelief etched on the faces of those who knew me.

The clock stopped that day.
Never moved on.
Silent, from the moment the gun fell from his hands.
But, I promise you…I will.