With the time change, morning daylight becomes precious. It’s dark by 5pm now, so I like to get up and get going early. My partner, however, stays up working late into the wee hours and sleeps in. I woke up at 7, but decided to stay in bed. Early morning brain work is often my most productive, so I just lay there and thought about my Memoirs assignment. How would I describe my late husband in detail? As I pictured him from toe to head, each part brought back associations and memories spanning the 30 years we were together. Doing this in the quiet, safe, wordless place where I sleep was a great indulgence. I didn’t feel the need to come up with verbiage or sentence structure or decide what might be better left unsaid. My brain wandered through different decades and moments without the need to assign chronology. In this floating place, I felt more connected with his entire person, without delineation. When Steve rolled over, I put a hand on his shoulder and suddenly began to weep. Why just then? Perhaps the absence of tangibility in my relationship with Jim just would not be denied at the moment I became aware of touch.
We are still one.
He sat at the edge of the bed, his naked back to me. He was working up to rising, about to stand on his unsteady, swollen, deadened feet and shuffle off to the bathroom. Something prompted me to scoot forward and wrap my legs around his waist and lay my cheek between his shoulder blades. “You will always be the love of my life,” I whispered. “You know that, don’t you?”
He did. He does.