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Tuesday, February 16, 2010

#23 An Ocean for a Bed


I wake needing to tell you something, something important, but when I reach to touch your arm or shoulder to wake you, I am shocked as though struck by lightening.  You aren’t there.  I need to talk to you but you aren’t there.  Then I forget what I want to tell you and start crying.  I weep as I stagger to let out the dogs and wait for them to come back in out of the cold.

I pour coffee to wake me up but I know I can’t stay awake.  I need to hide inside The Red Sweater some more.  With mug in hand, I wobble back to our bed and when I lie down it lists to my side as though to remind me that you, the ballast that keeps the bed on an even keel, are gone.  A wide expanse of ocean spreads itself over your side, where you should be.  Am I on a sinking ship?  Where are the life preservers?  If I drown, will I find you?

I pull a sleep mask over my damp eyes and go back to sleep, forgetting to feed Mr. Palmer.  He’s a lot like me, swimming around in a pretty house all alone.  A couple of hours later, I wake and you’re still gone.  But the bed is level and I wonder what it was that I was so desperately wanted to say to you.  Does it even matter now, when every fiber of my being aches for you?  Does anything really matter anymore?

Coffee warmed in a microwave should be against the law.  I sip it and throw it out and make another pot.  I make a full pot knowing there will be coffee left over.  Maybe you want a cup?

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