1-1-07

The first thing I did this morning was your laundry. I want to have all your belongings gone when you return to gather your things. My fear is that I'll live in a home that has become a minefield, and stumbling upon one of your shirts or socks could rip me apart further. In some way, though, as I transfer the wash to the dryer, hang up your shirt, I am comforted by this little chore, this small and basic gesture, doing your laundry. Like pouring the cream into your coffee for you, or drying your back. In some ways, being comforted like that makes me sick.

Last night, I dreamed you were telling me your dream. I didn't pay attention to that as much as you were sleeping beside me. When I woke, there wasn't that gift of a few moments of being awake and forgetting how much pain I was in. Each time I woke up during the night, I knew you were gone.

I prayed last night, prayed for the strength to get through this and everything else. To be able to carry on, face the challenges on solid ground. Right now, I have no idea. I begged for it. Friends tell me I'm strong, I'll get through this. I don't feel that strength; I feel run over, and weak. I feel tired and I feel that walking is more like crawling. I feel shocked and gutted and broken. I feel as if I've lost my father all over again - something I believed in and someone I love is gone. Just like that.

I threw your strawberry jelly away, took the photos down. I'm trying to convince myself I never really believed it in the first place.

It's hard to breathe; it's hard to eat. Especially because while I'm able to stomach toast, I've managed to burn it three times already this morning.

Yesterday when you called I asked you if you when you were flying back. You said that your ticket was for Monday. I shook my head at your non-committal response and asked you if that was when you were coming. You told me you weren't sure, that you had to talk to a lot of people, you had a lot of talking to do, that you just ran when you came here and you have to fix a lot of things. You were crying. You named several names but my own name was not mentioned. I was crying.

This morning when I walked Cheyenne, under the blue skies of a brand new year, I thought of you and the times we've made that walk. I missed you so. My heart could not lift up to the beauty around me; I felt that I was somehow darkening my surroundings. How something that has been my ritual and inspiration for five years can in such a short time turn over and become sadness for me, saddened me more so than I already was. I have no idea how I can reclaim it and make it mine again.

I'm terrified of now. I'm terrified to be in this new year and to have so much pain and know there's more coming. I know I'll lose Mom this year, and I know I'll stand alone. I know you'll be back today or tomorrow or someday soon and you'll pack up your stuff and get on the road back to your home. I know that will be the last time I see you.

So much has happened in such a short time. It's a fall from happiness, a fall from grace, a fall into darkness. Friends say I'm strong, but I just don't know anymore.