Instead I am reading. It is a memoir written with such emotion; my heart aches. Presently, the only comfort is Jules, my big money cat who is curled purring in my lap reminding me of what contentment is all about.
Quiet. Alone. Did I mention I am seldom alone? However I do value alone time in small bits, but not for a whole night. Perhaps there is a fear raging beneath that has been silent and not acknowledged for decades prior to meeting my husband.
He was sick through the night. I slept in my son's bed last evening. A big double bed for one feels really huge. I slept alone with walls separating me from my husband and the possibility of contamination. I woke to him yelling for help. Disoriented I stumbled out of the bedroom and into the steamy bathroom. I spoke to my husband through the shower door. My eyes looked for the blur of his image through the foggy glass. Instead his face was pressed against the glass, his head leaned on the ledge as he was sprawled on the bottom of the tub; his eyes closed. I caught my breath and stammered, "Are you OK?" Silence followed.
I realize I fear being alone.