I am determined to post something.

Yesterday I tried several times to write something. I would be sitting outside, soaking up the little, tiny bits of sunshine that poked through the thick, grey clouds threatening rain and more dampness, and I would be hit with inspiration. A thought or a sentence would roll through my head and I would jump and run inside to the computer to type it out. Feeling like I was on some kind of tangible roll.

But as soon as my fingers hit the keys, the thought or the sentence would be lost and while I would keep writing, once I read over the words, I would realize that I wasn’t really making sense. My thoughts weren’t even coherent. The phrases and sentiments were almost completely lost in translation, making little to no sense to even me, let alone any of you. Kind of like I was writing in a foreign language.

The language of Janet and Don.

I’ve felt a bit “off” since I came home on Tuesday. Okay, that’s a bit of a lie. I’ve felt a LOT off since I came home on Tuesday. My brain doesn’t seem to be working quite right. Like I almost mailed off a birthday card without stamps on it. And I had a hard time remembering what time the school bus came to drop Emma off. And I find myself in the middle of a conversation with someone, not sure what’s been said or what I’ve said, for that matter. Like I haven’t been listening. Like I’ve been distracted.

Don wrote to me that our minds are muddled with one another and that stuck because it’s true. My mind is muddled with him.

I will be standing by the sink, washing dishes (oh…that’s another brain lapse moment, too. I washed an entire load of dishes without soap. And later that day, during another session with the sink, I stood there, trying to remember why I was filling the sink..) when all of a sudden, it feels like someone punched me in the stomach. Hard. And I can’t breathe. And I can’t think. All I can do is feel this terrible pain. All I can do is ride it out. Ride it out and watch the images that come hurtling toward me in these moments.

The deck. The view from the deck. The play structure. The marsh. The landlord’s pool. Don’s car. The stairs that lead to another’s home. The gravel. The beauty of the lilacs and the trees and the air blowing past.

And I think, “I was there, right?”

The living room. The loveseat. The chair by the deck door. The smell. The smell of just one person. The cold leather and lack of throw cushions or blankets (Baby…that’s what you need! Cushions AND blankets!). The ceramic tile smooth and cool on my bare feet. The book shelf. The boy movies. The yearbook with the best picture ever of my boy, filling my head with wishes for yesterday and years ago. Knowing I could have been “that girl”. The girl that could have changed everything, if he had let me, anyway. Too bad I was only five.

And I think, “I was there, right?”

I stand there and am flooded with the feeling. The energy of that apartment. The energy of the two of us. I am flooded with the image of the bed in the corner. Red sheets. Not enough blankets because good goddammned it was fucking cold! Curled up on my right side, the warmth of his body behind me. The mother’s day gift given with nothing but love for me. My reluctant acceptance. The words of my angels in my ears, “you take the fun out, Janet”, propelling me to smile and say thank you. The smell of those sheets and the feeling of a shared pillow. His head right next to me. In a most convenient spot. And the way he looked at me. Like he was really seeing me. Like it was the first time anybody had noticed me. And the way he held me, soft and tight and safe and warm under the extra quilt. The way he holds me. Close to his body, like a magnet. Close to his body like he might starve if I’m not pressed that close to him. Like I might starve.

And I think, “I was there, right?”

Because when those images and those scents and those pure, raw feelings overcome me, it doesn’t feel like a memory. Instead, it feels like a dream. Like maybe I made it all up.

Except…

That I smell it now. Smell him now. And if I close my eyes, I can see the bathroom. The cute curtain sectioning off storage. The best shower head ever. The paint colour. The vanity with room to spare. I can see it and smell it and feel it. Feel him standing next to me. Arms around me. Or hand on my shoulder.

And oh God, how my shoulders miss his weight.

I was there. I was there. I * was * there.

Right?