Today When I Woke Up
Today when I woke up I was back in 1988 and you were still alive.
Even in a state of semi-conscious pre-waking, I could feel your muscular arm curled snugly around my waist. I could feel your chest as it rose and fell, could feel your breath on the back of my neck. We were curled in a nest of covers.
It was cold, but we were warm underneath a flannel comforter. I breathed deeply, savoring the scent of your skin.
As I came around, shaking off the last dregs of sleep, I studied your face, soft and smiling in sleep. It was smooth with youth; all of the lines and wrinkles that had accumulated on your face during the last years of your life had not yet burned themselves into your skin.
Although they were closed, knew that when they parted, your eyes – always the clearest shade of crystal blue I’d ever seen – would be glimmering with a sudden spark that, in the last days, would be absent.
I didn’t cry. Somehow, I always thought that I would.
But I didn’t. I just watched until I faded away.