Counting

We grew up learning the wrong math,
measuring a room by its shadows,
a body by temperature,
a life by hours and years.

But yesterday, in a room full of grief
for a boy who returned to the earth too soon,
no one spoke of the gold he gathered,
only the light he left behind.

If we change the unit,
the universe shifts.
What if distance isn’t counted in miles,
but in the silence between two apologies?
What if wealth isn’t coins in your pocket,
but warmth you leave on borrowed coats?

And what is a father measured by,
if not the safety in his voice?
What is a daughter measured by,
if not the tenderness she carries back home?

We trade hours for wages,
but maybe a minute is only worth
the oxygen you give back to a suffocating room.
Maybe a year is just a collection of afternoons
you made someone feel like they belonged.

When the pulse finally dims,
and the body forgets its own name,
the earth does not ask about your glory.
It only knows the kind of weather
you become in a season,
and how you keep returning
to the lives of those who remember.

When my turn comes,
do not tell me
how long I was here.

Tell me I am the ocean I calmed
in someone else’s chest.
Tell me I am the echo
that refuses to leave the room
long after the music stops.
Tell me I left something

gentler than I found.

Richard Claremont (Australian b.1965), Ten Minutes (South Coast), 2026, Acrylic on board