02/16/10
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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