Waking up, I realize he’s not here. Again. I see him on the bedroom floor, not sure what time he came in. I remember last night, a few words were exchanged, I mentioned my doctor’s appointment today and that a mammogram was ordered, but he couldn’t linger in conversation – “a game had started”. Not sports, but it doesn’t matter. The game had started and he would be penalized if he abandoned it. From there, he poked his head in once or twice while my niece and I watched Downton Abbey, and then I retired to bed. Frustrated tears stained my pillow, sleep swiftly came and went and now I wake up to reality.
I cannot fathom continuing the wait for a pittance of meaningful interaction, so I distance my heart further. It’s all I can do, for now.
Photo Credit Spencer Stanhope, Thoughts of the Past (1859)