Regret

I imagined the house quiet, after they’d left. I could hear the memory of their voices as they were now, an echo. I could feel my heart pull in the way a hand contracts to a fist, the way a tide recedes as it pulls out, the sound as everything settles down and softens. And all there was was loss for all I didn’t do now. So I called out goodnight and they called back, and when I woke the next morning I rose the same as I did any other day, not knowing any more than the last.

About pinklightsabre

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in parenting, poetry, prose, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Regret

  1. Reminds me of something I just read of Marilynne Robinson’s on grace:
    “Beauty is reciprocal. Beauty disciplines. Understanding any moment as a thing that can bless time or come to poison it.”

    Liked by 2 people

  2. ksbeth says:

    each day is a roll of the dice

    Liked by 1 person

  3. rossmurray1 says:

    Sentiment doesn’t translate well into action, in my experience.

    Liked by 1 person

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