Tags

, , , , , , ,

…I don’t sleep. I just can’t.

The day brings a full schedule of tasks and responsibilities. The night is time to rest. I sleep—eventually, but rest does not come. I read books with real turnable pages. I drink chamomile tea. I do everything I’m supposed to do to wind down and prepare for rest. But it never comes. My head hits the pillow and my eyes see him. The last moments, the last words, and then a trail of memories from childhood to his last breath begin an endless night of my mind trailing.

And yes—I’ve tried meds.

Somehow the intense memories of a loved one prove to be more powerful than any drug.

And to be honest. I like remembering. I like the places my mind takes me. I want to remember. I fear of forgetting. But sometimes I get lost in those rabbit hole-like pockets and I wonder…

~What if?

~Did I?

~How did this happen?

~Did I really know?

~Why didn’t I cry more?

~How was I able to physically stand during his last week?

I get lost in those pockets and I process over and over again. I recount the sound of his voice or the touch of his kiss on my forehead.

I’m wide awake. Eyes wide open. The dark surrounds me. All is quiet except for the soft melody of my sleep music. For the first time all day it is quiet and my thoughts catch up with me. And I remember. I remember him.

It wasn’t just last night or the night before. It’s every night.

Every. Single. Night.

I fall asleep eventually—only to wake a few hours later and it all starts again.

I’m not sure if I want it to stop. I don’t want to forget him.

I remember his words…

I’m not afraid of death. I’m afraid of dying.

And then I remember my slow response.

Then together we must learn how to live in the dying.”

Now I ask myself.

How can I live in his death?

~

On the journey, L

*This excerpt was taken from my journal on November 12, 2012. And just so you know–I have since found rest in my slumber. It’s a journey I’ll share with you next time.

Advertisements