It’s only been a couple of days since our microwave died. It also served as the clock in our kitchen. I can’t tell you how often I look at the empty hole for the measure of the day. From the table, the stove, coming in the back door, I look. I “eye roll” my own eyes — how accustomed they were to this time. 

So how could I not think of calling you? How could you not be my first thought when I finish a painting? When I start one for that matter. Wanting to send you my progress along the way. How does my brain not look for your email responding to the morning blog? My outfit. My hopes and dreams. My damaged pinky. Or bruised feelings. Because you were my measure of time. My measure of heart. And this I can’t forget. Won’t. Don’t want to. I suppose it’s only a change of direction. I can no longer look over, but I can look up, look up and know you are still there, Mom. Here. 

Tomorrow they will deliver the new microwave. It will take a minute, but my eyes will adjust to the new normal. It will shine in the corner of our kitchen, and I will think to call you.