Streams of consciousness are interesting. I am sitting up in bed and as usual I can’t sleep. No one is texting me (which sucks and means in my mind that no one loves me anymore) and I have some sort of undefined ache. I turn on the T.V. hoping that something wonderful and miraculous is on screen.
Ok, T.V. do not disappoint me now. I have faithfully relied on you for forty years. I flip on the guide.
20/20? No, too serious and really since Hugh Downs left, not interesting. Intervention? Nope, I want to learn to drink more not less. Will and Grace? Nah, in this day of (almost) homo equality, the jokes seem antiquated. Movies, movies, well fuck, I can’t watch movies, every single one reminds me of Peter (a symptom of widowhood I hope some day will subside). Sexy holiday hair? I want sexy holiday hair. Now at this point I am too tired or too stupid to realize what I am about to flip on. That is correct an infomercial. But not just any infomercial, an infomercial for a contraption that dries your hair AND curls it at the same time.
Marvelous, I think, knowing full well that:
1. I have been fooled by T.V before and
2. This thing will NEVER work on black hair (The cultural type, not the color).
I pass on ordering the curlerdryerhairdoer. A part of me is crushed. I might have nice holiday hair, adequate holiday hair but it will certainly not be sexy.
The ache is not going away. Both of my dogs are snoring and I resent the fact that they can sleep. In my bed no less. I grab my phone and turn it off, thinking maybe if I seem less desperate, someone will love me. Again not internalizing the fact that it is two o’clock in the mother fucking morning.
The undefined ache is still there. Where is Peter and why isn’t he home yet?
HOLY SHIT! What did I just say. Oh yep, there’s the ache. My heart is aching. I prepare myself for the endless stream of tears that usually accompany this realization. I go to the bathroom and get my standard amount of tissue paper. Preparation is everything. I sit up in bed and I wait. No tears. I squeeze my eye lids shut and will the tears to stream down my face. Nothing. Well this is a new development.
Yet no tears. At this point I am indignant. Unable to cry about my dead husband AND ho-hum holiday hair. Fuck! Ok calm down, I whisper to myself. Am I even going to a holiday party? I ask out loud. Focus, focus. This is good right? I turn my phone on, convinced that I will have twenty texts, asking all types of remarkable and engaging questions. Alas, no texts. I check Facebook and decide, I need to befriend more insomniacs. Yes, crazy insomniacs that post lots of demented, distracting posts.
I am mad and alone. Now what am I going to do? I have this ache, that won’t go away, despite my need for it to disappear. There is a pattern to my grieving:
Realize I will never see Peter again, panic about that realization, cry until my eyes are so swollen I can barely see, sleep.
Things are missing in this pattern, Dammit, a comforting pattern, my comforting pattern. I decide to get up and go look at my children, yes, a nice walk around the house. As I arise from my bed the dogs have the nerve to look disturbed. The little one even growls, she is so agitated. Shut up you, I whisper. Maybe I am hoping that my kids need me, however that is not the case. As I leave my son’s room, I walk toward my front door, I quietly step out on my front porch and watch the stars move across the sky. I stand on my porch and pray to feel a connection to Red. I hear him speak to me and his insight makes me laugh. He tells me that I better be glad that we live in the country and we don’t have neighbors, Why? I ask. Because babe, you’re naked.