It's soft as I run my fingers through it. The strands sift through my fingers as though they're sand, a reminder of the ticking clock. The ticking clock that affects everyone. The clock that took him away two days ago.
Everything is a reminder of the ticking clock.
We haven't spoken in weeks and yet, now, her head rests on my stomach and she takes deep breaths, each one warming my skin through the worn out cotton of my sleep shirt. It's the shirt she had bought me years ago for my birthday.
I only wash it during the day... I still wear it every night. It's been almost ten years.
The thought of the ever present end date leaves my mind as I think about the shirt, my hands still sifting through her hair.
This shirt has tears in it - I remember when she purposely pushed me off the swing. We didn't talk for two days... Two days more I could've had with her.
This shirt is worn thin near the shoulder straps from years of my skin rubbing against it. I remember how she told me about him in grade 8... But she didn't tell me about another him in college.
This shirt is incredibly old - it's been everywhere with me. Here in the states, all the way to Lebanon, and further - it makes me remember the road-trip we took to Florida. Just the two of us, new high school graduates looking for an adventure before our inevitable separation. The trip where we were looking for any reason for touches and "I'm-just-drunk" kisses and whispers at midnight that still make me cry with emotion.
The clock strikes three am, a smile chime resonating from it, not enough to wake her.
I didn't notice that my hands had stopped moving... There was no time change from 2:59 to 3:00. There were only those two moments, with no seconds in between. Time had stopped. Time had given me a chance to remember warm lips and soft caresses and promises of forever.
But the clock is at 3:01 now. My hands continue their sifting. They are stroking sand crystals of time through the waves of the future, brushing them away from the ripples of the past.
I catch a glimpse of her pink mouth and my chest tightens.
Two weeks ago we weren't speaking, and now we're tangled up. She needed me and I ran, drove, flew to be with her. I will always run , drive, fly to be with her.
My heart aches when she rolls over, tear tracks staining her cheeks. She has lost so much. I pull my hands out of her hair.
I let time sift on its own. It deserves no help from me.
I hate seeing her like this.
I wind my arms around her slender waist and she sleepily pushes her head into my breasts. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but all I can think about is the funeral. The bright day that seemed unfair, yet fitting. Her father was the epitome of sunshine.
I remember how she doesn't cry as they lower the teakwood casket into the ground. I remember her smoothing down her velvet black dress that doesn't have any wrinkles. I remember her eyes, once so vivid and mirthful, dead and cold. Not even I can bring life to them. I remember standing amongst the grey graves and the red flowers, long after everyone had gone.
"God," it was the first word out of her mouth in hours. I thought she was going to pray.
"I wish I was never born." Her statement comes as a shock to me, but I let it slide because her father just died and she holds my hand like nothing else matters.
I look at her now as she sleeps, pressing close to me, and I realize why she said it. She's not angry at herself, or her parents. She isn't suicidal.
"God," her voice is desperate in my head as I remember, "I wish I was never born."
Because now that she's born, she must witness everyone die.
Everything is a reminder of the ticking clock.