For the first four days, I spent all my time in the doorway staring at the bed. I concentrated on the disruption of the sheets and the slight indentation on your pillow. My eyes, suddenly powerful from the distress, could see a strand of hair, dark and bold against the off-white pillowcase. I stared at the bed and waited for the tears to come. I waited for the realization that this was actually my life, that I was no longer writing myself stories that would never come true. Yes, this was my life, my worst nightmare live and in person. During those four days, I saw the words tumbling across the paper as my hand raced to keep up with my thoughts. I wrote it over and over again, using different times, different locations, different actions. Always the same thought. Always the same outcome. I, however, never got around to writing what happened afterward.

On the fifth day I passed the threshold into our bedroom. I inched toward the bed. I stood next to your side until my legs ached. A picture of you sleeping formed in my brain. I wanted then to remember you like that always. I had yet to erase my last look at you from my mind. The last real look, that is. I saw you afterward, saw you on that rolling metal slab of death. They pulled you out so easily, like they were looking for a fork in the kitchen drawer. Just as easily they put you back and locked you away forever in the cold, endless dark. No, I preferred to remember you sleeping because then I knew you were warm, knew that you’d wake up from your dreams with that drowsy smile on your lips.

The fifth day threatened to become the sixth. I reached for your pillowcase. I picked up the strand of your hair and rubbed it between my index finger and thumb for several minutes. I trailed it over my cheek, my lips, the tip of my nose. My fist clenched around it instinctively as I reached for the pillowcase with my other hand. I traced the outline of your head with my finger and then pushed against the downy softness. The pillow gave and the shape changed. Your imprint was gone and just as quickly replaced with mine. I felt the firm mattress under my body, pushing into my hips. I thought of all the nights we spent in this bed, tangled in these sheets, our sweat mingling, our hands busy. I buried my face in your pillow and slipped one hand under me, between my legs. I pressed down on my fingertips, tilting my hips slightly, and squeezing my thighs together. I thought about us making out like a couple of crazed teenagers and afterward you bragging about how you got to third base.

Your pillow stifled my sobs. It was the fifth day, the day we buried you, when it finally hit me. You were not coming home. We would never share Chinese on a Friday night. You would never look into my eyes again. I would never look into yours. I soaked your pillow with my tears and when I cried out everything that was inside me, I pulled the blankets around me, detected a hint of your cologne on the sheets, and fell asleep dreaming of the day when the flowers in the window would die.

© 2005
9.18.05