Just turned away for a second.
Death can leave people feeling so lost, lonely and empty. I have lost so many important people in my life in the last year and a half. But the one person whose absence would destroy me, is still here. Sleeping away sweetly, looking more like a small boy than ever. I see him and I see freshness. Innocence. I see a life literally barely beginning. With as much promise and possibility and danger as any other beginning life. When I give thought to the possibility of him ever being gone, I see him so clearly. As our four year anniversary approaches I feel a certain pride that our relationship is so lovely. No thought of marriage or children or anything extreme. No need for it. Just some strange underlying acceptance that things are the way they are, and they will be okay, and for all our faults we are okay. When I really contemplate him, I still cry. There is something so pure. Something I have never known in another person. Something that brings me to my knees. Something that attracted me to him so fully, and immediately. Something that is so far under the surface, I am not sure he even knows about it. But it emanates from him to me like something so indelible it has always been there, in me and him, waiting to meet. It vanishes in the light of day, it the paying of bills and watching of movies and sharing political views. But in the few moments I have alone, after he is out for the night and I am on my way, I can see things this way. Tonight I realize love, again. I realize that we have spent four years fulfilling parts of each other that only we could fulfill.
I can't stop thoughts of my mother from rushing in. We brought her here in a dying state and had a hospital bed and dry erase board and so many washcloths and rubbermaid bins, all in the name of her death. It was never like a dirge. There was a surprising air of joy to it all. My being able to take care of her for once, to have her in one place, being cared for, and not wanting to escape, was unique. It only happened once in her whole life. The four last months of her life. But we were happy, especially at first. She was still coherent and a little in denial about dying. She was still alive. We would talk and I watched a Nick Drake documentary with her, and I would get into her bed with her in the beginning and it was as if I knew my place in the world, and it was there with her. She deteriorated in spite of herself, it was so natural and real. It was so strange and scary. Her demeanor changed and we stopped talking and our relationship became more business like as I gave her medication and fresh water. It was hard, but it ended. That's the lesson here, I think.
My mother emanated something that touched me. It controlled me. I served her and loved her and remained as devoted as I possibly could to her, and it was never wrong. To this day I know that if I had defied this impulse it would have ruined me down the line. I would be full of regret. As it is, I have no regret. I love her now and loved her then to my full capacity. Loss is confusing and cathartic.
It just floors me how lucky I am to be able to stand up from this seat and go to bed, next to him. If luck isn't the culprit, it's something that looks favourably upon me, in all aspects of my life, even the ones that seem shitty. Everything I need appears, everything that's right happens... and I don't wonder why people believe in a god or gods. Because sometimes you just feel so small. Sometimes you just feel so thankful. Sometimes you just feel so full.
I can't stop thoughts of my mother from rushing in. We brought her here in a dying state and had a hospital bed and dry erase board and so many washcloths and rubbermaid bins, all in the name of her death. It was never like a dirge. There was a surprising air of joy to it all. My being able to take care of her for once, to have her in one place, being cared for, and not wanting to escape, was unique. It only happened once in her whole life. The four last months of her life. But we were happy, especially at first. She was still coherent and a little in denial about dying. She was still alive. We would talk and I watched a Nick Drake documentary with her, and I would get into her bed with her in the beginning and it was as if I knew my place in the world, and it was there with her. She deteriorated in spite of herself, it was so natural and real. It was so strange and scary. Her demeanor changed and we stopped talking and our relationship became more business like as I gave her medication and fresh water. It was hard, but it ended. That's the lesson here, I think.
My mother emanated something that touched me. It controlled me. I served her and loved her and remained as devoted as I possibly could to her, and it was never wrong. To this day I know that if I had defied this impulse it would have ruined me down the line. I would be full of regret. As it is, I have no regret. I love her now and loved her then to my full capacity. Loss is confusing and cathartic.
It just floors me how lucky I am to be able to stand up from this seat and go to bed, next to him. If luck isn't the culprit, it's something that looks favourably upon me, in all aspects of my life, even the ones that seem shitty. Everything I need appears, everything that's right happens... and I don't wonder why people believe in a god or gods. Because sometimes you just feel so small. Sometimes you just feel so thankful. Sometimes you just feel so full.