On the Eve of Her 28th Year

It is quiet in the house as I lay out the pills. Every crimson cap together in a row. My rhythmic breathing keeps the time as I count out twenty-seven. I shake another into the palm of my hand. The hollow rattle of the near empty bottle echoes in the stillness.

Twenty-seven, plus one to grow on. As the clock chimes midnight I sweep the pills into the bottle, a satisfying rustle of acetaminophen and plastic clicking together. Logically tomorrow will be no different than today. But for tonight, hope, ever vigilant, takes up her mantle once more.


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