Twenty Years

He said it without emphasis.
Looking at the screen, not at me.

Something about how things usually go,
how long, if nothing interferes.

Twenty years.

It didn’t sound like much
the way he said it.
As if it were a range
on a chart.

I nodded.
There didn’t seem to be
anything else to do.

Outside, the day was ordinary.
Cars moving.
People carrying things
they meant to keep.

I tried to fit it in.

Twenty years.
It sits there
like a number you don’t use
but don’t forget.

I’ve lived longer already.
That seems relevant.
Or it should.

The body feels the same.
No warning, no change
to match the statement.

Only the knowledge
that something has been set
without asking me.

I think about time differently now.
Not better.
Just closer.

There are things I meant to do.
There still are.

That hasn’t changed.

What has changed
is the way they feel
when I think of them.

More definite.
Or less.

I can’t tell yet.

It’s too soon.

For now, it’s just there.
Twenty years.

Said once,
and not taken back.