Status: Fin.
Your Bed
i miss you more than anyone should
January 6th, 2016. 12:00AM
My life can be defined in two distinct phases.
Before 3:23am on December 6th, 2015. And everything that's come after.
After is painted in a cool grey, almost like the smoke that curled off the stick in his hands, the smoke that blew out of his lungs. It felt like the smoke. Sometimes, I found comfort in the smoke, others, it was hard to breathe in.
The bed he, we slept in is left untouched. I sleep in the chair, limbs tucked tightly to my chest. It's the only way I can sleep anymore. Curled in on myself makes me feel like he's still here. Still holding me, like he should be.
His phone alarm goes off every morning at 7:30 on the dot. He has to get up for work. Only, he can't. I keep the phone on the desk by the chair, not on the nightstand where he would leave it. I hit the snooze button twice, just as he always had done.
The phone calls continue to roll in, a month later. Every time I think I'm getting better, it hits me again in the form of "I'm so sorry"s and flowers showing up on the doorstep after work.
I toss them into the trash. I can't have that sitting around, reminding me that he's truly. Gone.
When I order food from our favorite take-out places, and they ask if there's anything else, I pause, turning to the chair he sat, almost asking what he wants. My heart crumples every time I realize he's not there.
I mutter out a weak, "that's all", and hang up the phone.
I sit with the TV on mute, and the lights all off. I don't know why. I just can't bear to turn anything on. It doesn't feel right. None of this does.
He should be here, smiling and laughing at what we're watching, at something I just said.
It's not right.
The food arrives twenty minutes later, and I, again, sit in silence and darkness as I eat. I occasionally glance to his chair, where I picture he is sitting, watching me. I smile the best I can.
"I miss you," I whisper to the empty chair.
I'm not really hungry anymore. I pack up the food and put it into the fridge. Maybe I'll be hungry tomorrow.
I always say that, though. And food from before his accident is piled up in there. I should clean it out. But I won't. I already know it.
I drag myself into our, my room. I fall to the chair and stare at the bed.
The window by it is cracked open.
I hadn't opened it since he passed. It was a thing with him, though, he loved to sleep with the window open.
I smile.
I change into a pair of his sweatpants and his favorite shirt to sleep in, and hesitantly sit on the side of the bed. The first time in a month.
I run my hand over the blankets and sheets. My hand stops right before his pillow.
It's not right.
I get up and go to the chair. I curl into myself, and fall asleep, the cool breeze from the January night filling up the spaces he should be.
My life can be defined in two distinct phases.
Before 3:23am on December 6th, 2015. And everything that's come after.
After is painted in a cool grey, almost like the smoke that curled off the stick in his hands, the smoke that blew out of his lungs. It felt like the smoke. Sometimes, I found comfort in the smoke, others, it was hard to breathe in.
The bed he, we slept in is left untouched. I sleep in the chair, limbs tucked tightly to my chest. It's the only way I can sleep anymore. Curled in on myself makes me feel like he's still here. Still holding me, like he should be.
His phone alarm goes off every morning at 7:30 on the dot. He has to get up for work. Only, he can't. I keep the phone on the desk by the chair, not on the nightstand where he would leave it. I hit the snooze button twice, just as he always had done.
The phone calls continue to roll in, a month later. Every time I think I'm getting better, it hits me again in the form of "I'm so sorry"s and flowers showing up on the doorstep after work.
I toss them into the trash. I can't have that sitting around, reminding me that he's truly. Gone.
When I order food from our favorite take-out places, and they ask if there's anything else, I pause, turning to the chair he sat, almost asking what he wants. My heart crumples every time I realize he's not there.
I mutter out a weak, "that's all", and hang up the phone.
I sit with the TV on mute, and the lights all off. I don't know why. I just can't bear to turn anything on. It doesn't feel right. None of this does.
He should be here, smiling and laughing at what we're watching, at something I just said.
It's not right.
The food arrives twenty minutes later, and I, again, sit in silence and darkness as I eat. I occasionally glance to his chair, where I picture he is sitting, watching me. I smile the best I can.
"I miss you," I whisper to the empty chair.
I'm not really hungry anymore. I pack up the food and put it into the fridge. Maybe I'll be hungry tomorrow.
I always say that, though. And food from before his accident is piled up in there. I should clean it out. But I won't. I already know it.
I drag myself into our, my room. I fall to the chair and stare at the bed.
The window by it is cracked open.
I hadn't opened it since he passed. It was a thing with him, though, he loved to sleep with the window open.
I smile.
I change into a pair of his sweatpants and his favorite shirt to sleep in, and hesitantly sit on the side of the bed. The first time in a month.
I run my hand over the blankets and sheets. My hand stops right before his pillow.
It's not right.
I get up and go to the chair. I curl into myself, and fall asleep, the cool breeze from the January night filling up the spaces he should be.
♠ ♠ ♠
Inspired by my mother dealing with my fathers death.xo.