The Tick

I don't think about death often, but when it creeps into my thoughts, it tends to happen in moments like this.

I'm overtired after little sleep and a long day.
I have a husband-contact deficit.
I just finished reading a delightful book.
I hear the ticking of the clock.

That last bit is not meant in any biological way; it's no comment on my recent birthday. There's actually a clock in a corner of this room with a loud tick.

Lately my uncertainty has vastly outstripped my reassurance, and the clock's steady beat reminds me that the time for making decisions is growing closer. Earlier this summer I described the fear of seeing where I was headed, but not the path it would take to get there. Now I have a grasp on the last few weeks (just over a month) left in this separation, and it's becoming more urgent for me to know what I'll do on the other side.

The light at the end of my tunnel, I now see, is a brick wall with a bright beam shining at it, not actually a passage to the next realm.