I waited as long as I could. I was going to wait for her before I wrote anything else. Fortunately or Unfortunately, It was obvious that my muse, my beast and my master wasn’t willing to wait any longer. I decided to try and pen my torment as best I could, without giving way to pain immeasurable. I waited, but funny thing is, I am still waiting. I believe I will always be waiting for her to come. I hear the knock, the ring and the whisper.
This post with be different, but you should know that by now. I will not share with you, those bipolar tidbits about writing. You know, the ones that fall haphazardly from my brain at any given moment, amidst the useless drivel- yes that moment or those moments, take your pick. This post will try to pick up the pieces which fell between a thanksgiving and a merry Christmas. I want to pick up the pieces, I really do. I will try. I will try to stop waiting, but it seems to me that I have little chance of that, anytime soon.
On December the 5th, I lost something. She left me. There will be no more visits from Memphis, no more advice on two hour-long telephone calls almost every day, and there will be no more blue eyes reading my mind. She will not come again. This will not happen because she is dead. My mind keeps reminding me this, over and over. My mind also keeps replaying that moment her last breath escaped while I screamed her name. She will not come again, but I cannot stop waiting.
I must apologize for this post being so different. I must say that I am sorry because I cannot get past this. I hope to stop waiting soon. I hope to stop standing at the front door, looking for her slow ascent up my driveway. I have to stop waiting for the phone call, and staring at her dead number…thinking about her dead house…her dead car.
She’s dead. I have to stop waiting.