The final third of my day stretches through the silence. I sigh.
My gaze moves up towards the footballs congregated in piles at the corner of the grey watchtower; they’ve now succumbed to gravity. I scan the air for a hint of a breeze, hoping for movement but the balls remain still; entrapped in their space as I am in mine.
The sheen of sharp wire glints like the wedding ring I twirl; remembering how his lips, though rough with the weariness of life, gave way when we kissed on the second third of this day; his visit. Yes, there are moments that give comfort.
And now that the last third has been measured, and pronounced finished, I lie on my bed and stare at the white ceiling, willing sleep to gently bring me away.
I close my eyes and think of my girl. She is just twelve: not a teen minus one or an adult minus six. My daughter, with the hope of a life. For her, the rule of thirds will stretch so far into oblivion that it will not – it must not! – even exist. And her days will merge with her nights, for she will own time and do what I never did: consider love, and pause at the wonder of life.
The silence of the day has been absorbed into the contagious cries that ripple through the cells at night. I sigh. Three thirds: another day of wiping clean this slate of passion.