Is It Morning Yet?

 

how old am i? i forget. i must be really old
to feel this bad first thing in the morning. my
ankle hurts, but there's nothing there, just
tape marks.

eyes slowly opening, hand groping for the body
next to me, i discover i'm alone. oh, well. it was
nice while it lasted, i thought.

so if it's morning, what will i do with this new day?
will i use it wisely? will i squander it as i did my
fortune? will i leave a mark on this day or will i
let it slip away in shame?

it's hard to know because today is just a day that
will become another yesterday. they line up behind
me, these yesterdays. i mark down in a book the
important ones, the ones i must not forget, though
i try, believe me, i try to forget.

i listened to a song last night in my head, over and over:

"slowly, i'm healing. broken hearts take a little time..."

and realized it's true. that part is over, or almost. the part
left to heal from is harder to move beyond, though. it helps
when he holds me, but it's not something he can do, this
healing. i must do that myself and it is one of the hardest
things i've ever faced.

"i am safe. i am loved. i am alive when i could have been
dead. the things you do to stay alive are not held against
you, are they? no. that wouldn't be fair."

look at it for a moment or two, back away carefully, but
sometimes it follows me. it followed me into the kitchen
when i went for more ice water. i saw it played out in the
blackness behind the window over the sink. woke up and
found i'd washed all the ice out of my cup.

"are you ok?" he yelled from this room into that one.

"yesiwillbeok"

i lie and tell myself i was living happily ever after with my husband
so that i can have an excuse for the tears when they come, and
sometimes i believe myself, but mostly i don't. mostly i miss the
sweet smell of tweakers as he sleeps. i miss knowing what i'm
supposed to be doing. i miss the men i raised from newborns,
fresh from my body with their whole lives in front of us.

chris keeps calling and leaving messages on my machine, but i am
afraid to talk to him, afraid he's going to say, "i understand, mom.
i knew it wouldn't happen." i am such a disappointment, always
have been.

yes.

it's morning.

denise

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