The doctor came to tell me that he had died. 

I thought it was just for that day,
so I went to bed early and slept well.

But the next morning I heard them talking ;
                                  apparently he had still died .
                           
I slept again.  I woke up. I cried.
                              
I thought it was just for that day.

When it was over he had still died so there was nothing to do but drive home. 
                        
It took hours and then the refrigerator had broken down. Soon it was 
fixed it but he had still died.

And every night after that I slept as long as I could to give him a chance to
not have died.

But in the morning when I  got up.     I asked myself if he
had still died the answer was always, "Yes."

And so it went into a week and then it went into two weeks. Eventually it
went into months.

And it kept going.

It wouldn�t stop.

It kept on having happened.

No matter what I did, it refused to not have happened.

Even if I wrote in my diary about it

Even if a wrote a poem about it

Even if I forgot about it, 

IT didn�t forget about it.

Not for a second was it caught off guard.

It was as stubborn as the music of the spheres.

It just wouldn�t let bygones be bygones.

To this day it has happened.

It insists on having happened.

It will never tire of having happened.
                              
Nothing will distract it from having happened.

It was more than one day. It was more than one week. 

It was more than months. It was more than years.

And it knew it � ALL the time.

Now I rarely sleep.