it's when you stand in the bathtub,
struggling to maintain a constant cell phone conversation with your mom,
wishing the home phone would work so that you could maintain a conversation in longer than forty second chunks,
finding out she felt a pain in her chest earlier,
her left arm went numb,
pulled over the car,
let the feeling subside,
continuing,
voice breaking into digital static,
getting frustrated after the fourth dropped call,
put your jacket on,
leave the soup to burn on the stove,
the cereal to go soggy by the computer,
leave the television on,
shaft finding the kidnapped daughter,
put on mismatched gloves,
half-lock the door,
go outside,
walk to the promenade,
watch the east river ice bob up and down,
the big city shining with a low ceiling reflecting itself back down,
trying to convince her to work less hard,
drop her demands for perfection,
offering to pay to make sure she doesn't work 80 hour days,
with dad unable to do much with a broken ankle,
not wanting anyone to die before their time,
no silly heart attacks
...and being rescinded,
advising you to keep living the way you are,
that's victory enough,
and she'll promise to relax.

this is when mortality articulates itself,
and realize that everything you've ever held,
you want to hold closer,
but realize it's all fleeting.

and you just want to throw the phone into the river,
but you pet a inquisitive dog instead.

if the picture frame cracks,
don't hide it.

*sigh*
now i have to find some negatives.
and clean up the kitchen a bit.