|Light (M.A.Reilly, 2014)|
Loud. Continuous. Scream. And then I regathering myself and resettle.
I move through each day mostly in shock. I find eating difficult as my stomach feels continuously nervous. The kindness of others makes me sob immediately. I can no longer remember what happened the prior day and I find being busy with physical tasks offers the best respite, save the time I spend with Rob. I am with him while he is awake and then many, many hours while he sleeps, or rouses for care. Sometimes this involves bathing him, feeding him applesauce, bringing him water to sip, helping him to change clothing. Other times we chat and I try to understand what he is saying. Many times we are just quiet. Now and then I read to him. The other night I read the first chapter from Joyce's A Portrait of the Artists as a Young Man. We laughed at the moo cow coming down the road and early in the reading he fell asleep.
I watch him while he sleeps. Run a finger along his hairline, softly brushing back his hair from his far head. Now and then I make images of him with my phone. On Valentine's Day, I recorded a two minute video of him. I have saved his voice on my phone but can't bear to listen to any of the dozen messages he left for me starting on January 11 and running through February 12--the last recorded message he could leave.
Even as I gather all of this and hold it close, I know none will fill that chasm, heal this fissure that has only begun to crack open.