It’s not that I don’t have anything to write about, it’s just that it all seems to be the same thing over and over again. It seems that all I write about is angst and sorrow and sadness and grief. These emotions are steady in my life. I wake every morning knowing for sure that at some point during the day I will sob, feel sorrow, ask unanswerable questions and feel disconnected from the rest of the world. Everyone else keeps moving forward, but I am sinking slowly in a bog that tugs me lower and lower into someplace unknown.
Lately I have been trying to imagine what Kevin’s touch felt like. So familiar while he was alive, but now that he’s gone I try to recall the feeling of his arm on my shoulders or his hand in mine. All those years and it’s gone, a sensory memory that I just can’t recapture. When I was a teenager, a friend of mine’s father died. His mother never recovered from the loss. One day when I was talking with her she said, “What I wouldn’t give to rub his back just one more time. I used to complain when he’d ask, but what I wouldn’t give.” It’s true, what I wouldn’t give to touch Kevin, warm and alive, just one more time. I sit on the sofa and close my eyes because when I do I can see him sitting there with me. I find myself in his closet just inhaling the smell, his smell, on his clothes. I sleep on his side of the bed and I use his pillow.
I wish I could just retreat from the present and live in my memory.