Liminal Space

When the rotation of the Earth slows
And the air grows so thick,
So hard to walk through,
That every single step feels like a monumental feat,
The cards and the platitudes collect
As reminders that someone out there
Sees you,
Cares,
Feels helpless too
Against a world that unexpectedly
And inexplicably
Grinds to a halt
On a random Tuesday morning in January.


Like a 45 played at 33 1/3,
Life continues to rotate
And make noise that’s sort of like music,
But the tempo is all wrong.
The pitch is off.
The music has changed 
And it will never sound the same again.
Someday it will sound like music again — 
Probably — 
But maybe always
Out of sync
Or just a tiny bit off key.
It’s like sight-reading new music
With no way to tell yet how the piece resolves.


Someday, life will reset.
Nobody knows how or when.
Nobody notices the moment the reset happens.
One day, it’s just obvious
The world is rotating at the right speed again.
The cards and the platitudes just
Stop.
People no longer start
Every conversation
With
“How are you holding up?”
Or
“I’m so sorry.”


Until then, 
Fridge full,
Gas tank empty,
Routines shot to hell,
And no sense of normalcy anywhere to be found,
Hours stretch into days.
Days seem like weeks.
Weeks feel never-ending
In the time between
Then and now
Before and after
Yesterday and tomorrow
In the liminal space
Where everything has changed
With no way to know how much 
Or in what ways
And the turntable keeps moving
Just a bit too slow.