Forgot how long it's been?

Quick. How long has it been? The exact number. If you had to stop and do math just now, good. Maybe someone asked lately and you blanked, then gave a rough guess with a shrug. The shrug bugged you all evening. You used to know it to the hour.

Before you ever counted days, the cigarette had you counting minutes. Minutes till the next one. How long this visit could possibly last. Then the day count showed up, a clock finally working for you. It held everything steady during construction. It was scaffolding, and scaffolding is supposed to come down.

Scaffolding comes off when the walls can stand by themselves. That blank means yours can. You're not keeping score against anything. You're living a Wednesday. There's no ceremony for it. God kept the exact count anyway. He's not asking you to recite it. Forgetting the number is what arriving feels like.

Next time someone asks, let the blank sit there without apology. Say a good while now, smile, and change the subject. That smile belongs to someone who isn't being measured anymore. Go live a day you won't bother tallying. No count. Just a life.