coupdegrace
On the morning I woke up and didn't crumble back into my bed, consumed with the overwhelming need to cry until I fell back asleep, I flirted with the idea that maybe I had gotten over him. That there was a small chance I had concluded one phase of grieving and moved on to the next; a more subtle type of pain that was numbing in his absence.
When he stopped showing up in my dreams, relief that I was no longer plagued by him and sadness that he was gone filled my heart and took up residence as a pseudo replacement - if he couldn't be around then at least I had this fabricated dichotomy to placate me.
A week before his car collided head on with a truck, a message was sent to him in sarcasm, masking (displaying) hurt and annoyance at his slacking communication. A week plus one day later, when I received the phone call, the only regret I can lay claim to in life was sending that message. Famous last words.
Of course, in death - as he always did in life, in the life I knew of him as my friend - he appeared again in sleep. This time reassuring me that everything was okay. In another, I received the same call - he had died all over again, and the hysteria seeped back in.
In the best one, he was standing in front of me - stunned and unbelieving of what I was seeing - that same disarming grin worn proudly on his face; look at me, I'm alive. And he was.
But you always wake up.
-S
