Story of a life

 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...