In January, in that hell at MDA when he didn’t know where he was most of the time, had that wild look in his eyes. I would sit next to him while he drooled uncontrollably because his mouth was half numb from the cancer spreading to his spine and brain, and I would rub his back and tell him I loved him, tell him how good he was doing, how proud I was of him. It calmed and soothed me too.
I would tell him a story, a story of us in the future. A future without cancer and hospitals. We would move to some small town in New Mexico and open a diner. I would gaze at the stars at night and help run the diner by day. We would live quietly, happily in the New Mexico desert and raise our son. Our bellies full of the delicious food Chris would make and our hearts full of love. I can see him in the diner, cooking food and exchanging smart ass remarks with customers, with a big grin on his face. I can see us holding hands in the crisp night air, watching our son playing underneath the blanket of stars above our head.
Chris always wanted to move to the desert, always wanted to own a restaurant of some kind.
I haven’t let go of this dead future. I can’t quite open my hand and let it slip away. And so for now, I’m only half here in this house, in this body, in this town. I’m dragging this shell around again these past few weeks, the inside is all scooped out and scraped clean. I thought I had put it all back inside, I thought I had made a whole new set of guts but I can’t find them anywhere.
ad astra per aspera 