Whispers

I dreamed of John tonight. He was my best friend during my high-school days. In my mid-20s, we grew apart and saw little of one another. We re-connected briefly while I was in college, after Phil and I had become a couple, but we split again. In this dream, John was the same person he had been to me during high school: A good friend. I told him about Phil's passing. I told him how I had missed having his friendship.We parted in the dream...and I awoke wondering if I should make another effort to contact John. I can't see what good would come of it, honestly.

Today marks 18 months since Phil died on our living room floor. I awoke at 7:41 AM that December morning. I had a strange dream about art-deco-stylized unicorns, flying by farting pixelated rainbows. I remember how I felt, too. Every now and again, I feel as I once did in my high-school days. I feel smart, capable, and connected to this human's experience in those moments. That's how I felt in the first few minutes. I needed to pee so I went from the bedroom to the bathroom. I realized as I was urinating how incredibly quiet it was. Phil slept on a mattress in the living room. His snoring was erratic but LOUD. Usually, the TV would be on, too. Neither was true. I turned and saw Phil laying on the floor with his face on the bottom corner of the mattress. I rushed to him. He was mostly on the floor, face down and arms akimbo as if hugging his chest. Only his face and uppermost torso were on the mattress. I shook him and felt his neck for a pulse. His neck was wet and still warm.

I called 911 on my cell phone, too shocked and stunned to think of anything else.

A parade of people coming into the house and asking me questions began. The EMTs did try for some period of time to revive Phil but he was gone. I remember calling Phil's mom and the extended monosyllable "no" from her. I called my brother David. What else do you do? I picked from the two nearest funeral homes. I had always joked with Phil what a poorly named facility "Newcomer" was, so I picked the one further down the road.

Gods, it all makes me sad and ill.

I miss my Bear. I can remember all of these details about the first day he wasn't here but it is difficult for me to remember how he sounded, what it looked like when he laughed, or how he smelled. Pictures are cold things. I have hugged the few framed photos I have of Phil many times. Sometimes, I put kisses from my fingertips on his image's lips. Mostly, I just cry and talk to him as if he is still there.

Why am I still alive?

Nothing prepared me to live without Phil. He died without a will, without life insurance, and without any preparations for leaving me behind him. It was not like he at the age of 37 had any intentions on dying. The house and both vehicles were in his name. Everything was in his name. I was left in this fucked-up new world without him to deal with circumstances I could not have handled before he died. Months of sleeping very little and eating nearly nothing followed. I disconnected from everyone in such a way that I cannot connect except for short periods of time and have the feelings generated last beyond parting from the other person.

I am tired, my Bear.

I wish I could find some way to follow you, some way to not be here. People always ask what you would have wanted for me, beloved, but this misery is not it. They see some future where I have mostly forgotten you and someone else loves me, but I don't want anyone else but you. I don't want to forget you! I want you back here with me. I don't want to be alone, but I am. I don't want to be broken, but I am. I don't want much of anything except for these miracles I cannot seem to make become true. I want you here. I wish I had a more money so I could keep the house. I don't get anything I want.

Oso, I love you. I wish you were here.