Two in the morning, I can’t sleep so I wander into the front room and take your favourite book from the shelf, a garish, broken-spine paperback, not to read but just to hold, because there must be some molecules of you still attached to its tattered pages. I smooth the front cover, perhaps hoping the book will act as a talisman and that my actions might affect time and ignore the laws of physics and recreate you, and perhaps hoping that God or whoever can hear my thoughts will bring you back to me.

I’m dizzy with loneliness and I understand now why we humans think the heart is where love resides for it there I feel empty and yet full of pain at the same time. I ache for the impossible. I need to see you.

When I was at the grocery store yesterday, I stood at the cash register lineup and I remembered you, three months ago, so tired and weak but still insistent on helping with household chores, leaning on me for strength and resting your chin on my shoulder. You only did that once. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to share that moment of peace forever.  And, I wanted you to know you were safe.

It’s silly sometimes. I remember exactly how high I reached when I straightened your shirt collar and how you would lean down a little bit to make it easier for me to tie your tie, even though you made a much better job of it than I ever did.  I remember the comfort of your arms wrapping around me.  I remember the warmth as you slept beside me.

So tonight, I take your book, and my memories and strange notions back to bed. And I pull the blankets around me for warmth, and I cradle your pillow in my arms, and I close my eyes so I can see you and be with you, again.

From the archives – 2014