2003-02-09 - 6:23 p.m.
'is any sadness ever the same sadness?'
Because as far as I can tell, or feel, most days I'm all by myself. Since she died, I've only ever felt her twice. The first was in a dream. I dreamed that I had to sleep in this tiny little bed in this tiny little hallway by the stairs. The building was huge, though, and it made me toss restlessly in my small section of it. And it was so late, so I got up and wandered aimlessly until the sun came up. When I got back to my bed, she was in it. All cozy and sleepy and bundled up. And I said, 'Mommy, what are you doing here?' And she smiled all lazy and said, 'I couldn't sleep up there, so I thought I'd come down here.'
There's a gap in the dream and I like to think that I climbed in bed with my mom and she stoked my temples and told me I was going to be ok. I like to think that maybe I actually slept real sleep. but, I don't remember.
I do remember that we went walking that morning and I said, 'Don't be insulted if no one else sees. If no one else notices.' And she just smiled at me all wise and knowing, like when we used to talk about life and she could tell me the truth because she'd been there, she'd lived through it. And she said, 'Don't worry. I know how this works.' Like maybe she's always been there and I just didn't really see.
And I hate that I still don't really.
The second time was after my car accident. They had taken me to the emergency room in an ambulance. And suddenly, I was all tubes and IVs. And my hands were her hands. And it terrified me because I was never more alone. I'd never felt it so simply. It was fact. All I really remember was thinking that you're never more alone than when you're released from the emergency room and there's no one in the waiting room worrying about you. There's no one there to pick you up. To pick up the pieces. And I kept feeling that aloneness as fact. It just was. I didn't feel her then. It was later when I was all full of Vicadin and sporting a fresh little IV bruise all covered in a cottonball and bandaid. I was on a slow-moving Greyhound back home when I got the strongest scent of her perfume. Like she had just taken the empty seat next to me.
Those have really been the only two times. And sometimes I wonder what I must be doing wrong to keep her so far away from me. Then I think that's probably just me thinking bad bad thoughts. I don't know. It's been really warm and sunny. And I know I've said this before, but there's something about the warm weather that triggers something sad in me. Because the worst times of my life have been summertimes. And when it's warm I used to be able to think about bare feet and swimming pools. I used to think about running through sprinklers and being free. Now when it's warm I just think about being uncomfortable. I think about mosquito bites and sickness. I think about stickiness and bad heat and how hard it is to breath. Then suddenly, yesterday it snowed. A snowstorm just for me. And it felt like a gift from her. A small way to ease the tension in my toes and the pain my head. It snowed. So I walked around without a coat just to feel it for real. Just to feel it. It probably felt too good. Now the sun's back, but it was nice while it lasted.
Then today I came home and my apartment smelled strange to me. Strange, but oddly familiar. And I realized that it smelled the way I remember cancer smelling. And I wondered if it was some remnant of her in my senses. Or if maybe it's just me. Now I think it probably is me. And that's just terrifying. And the shadows are lurking again. Watching from my stairs. And I'm feeling closed in. So I should probably get out of here...
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