“Writing is the dancing of the mind on a stage called paper.”
― Debasish Mridha
The virus has come and gone. So has Christmas. I am so sad, so saturated with sorrow. Still have an appetite, though. Had leftover ham from my neighbor and a cup of potato soup that Rob made for Christmas day when I was still ailing. He is chowing down on frozen barbecue pizza. Oh, the solitary trials of a partial family post-Christmas virus.
There is just no way to get around it. The dead cannot be with the living and still make it back to heaven before dawn. (I made that up. I made up a lot of stuff when I was delirious.)
We float around this too-large cavern of a house acting as if it still didn’t hurt. It does. The dead are standing over me saying, “Really, you miss us that much?” As if you treated me that well when I was alive. And so the guilt trips and the regrets recycle like regifted presents.
Tomorrow the rain sets in, dousing all hopes for a perfect Christmas as portrayed on the television.
Love is a pig in a poke, a virus you can’t cure, a headache that won’t go away, a holiday frenzy of forget-me-nots wrapped in baling wire.
I have been through eleven Christmases down here without Bob and many more than that without my daughter. Life goes on. Life goes on and and on.
I wish you what I wish for myself. A life of love and rebirth crammed with angels and light and magic and forgiveness and hallelujahs.
I wish you to see beyond the veil that separates us from our loved ones.
I wish you God.