You lay here with steady breath. I watch the rise and fall of your body. Warm light spills across the room. The sun has risen above the horizon. The hour remains early despite the fact that I am awake. I move closer. Your scent is heavy on my white sheets, but strongest on your skin. It is a foreign sensation. I could become accustomed to it. My fingers settle on your chest. Your heart is slow. My heart is fluttering. I haven't slept from fear you might be a dream. I close my eyes. Mediating on the moment, contentment flows over me.
And this contentment returns. Today is a Sunday. The scent of coffee is wafting through the kitchen. You sit reading the paper. I am making an omelette. My knife cuts tomatoes, mushrooms, and peppers in meticulous grace. I study a new ring on my hand. I push my hair back to look at you. A frown has made its way to your face. I wonder what you are reading. I smooth its wrinkle from your brow. You look up and smile. In this smile I know you love me.
And I know I love you. Storms clouds rumble over our house. I am curled up with a book. A familiar song plays. You look up from your book. We meet eyes. With the radio blaring in the back ground we are dancing. You are singing the words to our song. I laugh as you mess up the lyrics. You don't miss a beat and create your own lyrics. I join you. We are singing. We are laughing. We are dancing. We are living. In this joy I know that we need each other.
And this joy does not stay our own. I roam the house, picking up from the day. Pictures fill the front of our fridge. Your voice vibrates from an upstairs bedroom. I creep closer to listen outside the door. You weave stories and characters with exuberant pageantry. I hear giggles. I've never loved a sound as much as I love that laughter. I peak my head into the room. "Mommy," they call. I hug and kiss them goodnight. When I kiss you, I know you are more than family, you are home.
And as I lay dying. I look around at the ones that I love. Although I will miss them, I know you are waiting for me. The sun may be setting. My heart may be slowing. But you are both these things, you are my life and my dream.
YOU ARE READING
The Haunted and other short stories
Krótkie OpowiadaniaShort Story Collection including works such as Black Smoke and The Haunted. Black Smoke - In the old west a cowboy heads home only to find himself alone in the endless plains of his own denial. The Haunted - A man is tormented by the ghost of his pa...
