Story of a life

I sit and cry through the night, wondering if the fire that claimed Aaron should have taken me too. Perhaps our collective conscience burned with him. I’ve witnessed more deaths in two years than in a lifetime though only through a screen. What does it mean to see it in real time? How do they smile while the sky still weeps? I wonder if love will always be unfinished. Why no happy-ever-after for me? I recall the men I have held each one a lesson in measure: how much to give, how much to trust, how much to lose. Tonight I want to be selfish, to weep the rivers dry, to press every thorn to my mouth, to taste the blood of roses broken. I should shield myself, yet I lean toward the wound again and again. You deserve all the love in the world,  he said. I wanted to believe him. I still do. But he was always leaving though technically, I left first. I always do. Here is the truth: I cannot breathe. I cannot eat, or sleep, or drink. All I crave is the spirit I knew for two brief weeks. Is...

  I run outside my breath, a gasp. My feet stop, in shock. The moon is full tonight. A breeze slides over my skin. The tide… still crashes on the shore. I try to breathe. I can’t. How has the time not stopped… tonight? I go to the sea. We sit. We wonder. We reminisce. We wonder how many school lunches they spent to fell… a man of his might. The sea takes me in her arms, whispers words of comfort just as meaningless tonight as they have been, for years. He was a man I never met, but with all the pride, and ferocity, of a sister I call him my brother. He was a man I mourn tonight, as the sea’s waves lap at my feet. Blanketed by the dark, there is no one around. I wish I could drown, that the sea will swallow me whole. I feel helpless. The weight of the world… is heavy tonight. I give charity in his name. I pray for him. I hold him in my heart. Every tear that falls from my eyes carries his name, like a cherished pearl. Morning takes me by surprise. ...

 I dreamed about him tonight. Then woke up with a start. I wrote about the dream to process it. It was the first time I saw him in a dream. I thought the writing would help me move on. All it’s done is make me yearn for him again. Even more. I want to see him smile at me once more. To hear his voice. His halting, hesitant voice as he measured his words carefully, like pearls. How do I describe it for you, dear reader? I fell hard. Or at least as hard as I could given the circumstances. I went from bemused to curious to surprised to head over heels. Fairly quickly I suppose when all is said and done. I haven’t been able to give anyone the time of day since then. He took my breath away. Or perhaps it was the setting. The headiness of travel. At least that is what I told myself for the months I resisted feeling what I feared I was feeling. It felt so taboo. A forbidden kind of love. He was, in so many ways, a different kind of being. Our circumstances shaped us in way that nary the tw...

 I feel nauseous. I look down at my hands. I see them shaking. I try to remember the last time I ate. It was over 12 hours ago. A slice of cold, hard, thin-crust margherita pizza and four dumplings a few hours before that. I have had a cup of herbal tea since then as well. I want to eat, but my eyes are closing on me. I have been awake for about twenty hours now. Every pore of my body wants to sleep. I want to call out my children's names, ask them to get me something form the kitchen downstairs. My aching body just cannot be dragged down yet again today. It has been a long day. I close my eye sin exhaustion. I remember I had some coffee ice cream in the afternoon but it had made me nauseous too so I had stopped eating it. I wrestle with the beast in me that wants to be the master of all, in need of none. I do not want to ask.  The mind goes blank. I am unable to write anymore. My eyes droop shut. Sleep is elusive. I sit in the dark. Alone. Nauseous.  

  Photo by Art Institute of Chicago on Unsplash Last week before being separated for forty-two days, with only two 'rescue' weekends during that time where we can see each other. The name itself speaks volumes. In any case, I have been doing something fun with them every day. We went to the beach and pretended to surf. We had a candy day, a dance party, a water fight. We rode bikes, we had a pizza and movie marathon, we wrote little messages to each other to open one every day we are apart. Today, we also had an ice cream party. And a hike. Another movie. And another dance party. Its been a long intense day. They're getting restless as their departure grows closer. Every day they ask me f there is any way they don't have to go. But then their dad asks over zoom if they are excited to go visit him. I hear them say yes. But I also hear the pause before they do, and the hesitation in their voices as they do. I wonder if he does. I wonder if he will punish them for ...

  Photo by Josef Maxson on Unsplash They ask to see old photos. I show them. After all, that’s why I kept them: to give my children a sense of their history. Just four more days, then I won’t see them for eighteen. I won’t hold them close or smell the unique fragrances of their heads. They ask for one more, after I say, “The end.” I indulge. I snuggle a little closer. But every picture, as I describe what it is, where it was taken, and the story behind it, takes a toll on me. My breath catches. My heart races. My mouth grows drier by the minute. The nerves in my hands are firing full force. I keep going, until I truly can’t breathe anymore. I say, “Just one more. That’s it.” We stop. I smile and tell them to head upstairs, fighting hard to keep the tremor out of my voice. I hug myself as they run upstairs, trying to catch each other. Then, I hear a whisper: “That was fun, right? Looking at all those pictures?” My heart stops, unknowing. We traverse new territory every d...