It’s late at night and I have just gotten out of bed. It’s no use; I just lay there waiting for sleep to come.
There is an open bottle of red wine downstairs. I go to it, pour myself a glass, and retreat to the family room.
The family room is the room that Tom and I set up for our little retreat. Equipped with a tall bookcase of our favorite books, the stereo, and the fireplace, the family room was the perfect hangout. It was the room that housed our Christmas Tree, where we entertained guests that came to visit, and where Tom spent his last weeks. It was the room were he took his last breath.
I find a CD of Tom’s to keep me company and log on to the computer that now occupies the room. In my email there sits a few more emails waiting from the grief group. My guess is that they are all from someone who also can not sleep.
As I read the messages, I quickly lose interest. They are mostly on the topic of future relationships. I feel all the more alienated from these people than before, wondering how they can consider dating again so soon. I try not to be judgemental but, the truth is, I am.
There is no use in pretending that I don’t preconceived ideas about the proper amount of time for things. Some things just need the proper amount of time for healing to take place. Take childbirth for example. I believe that a woman’s body needs at least a year to completely heal and restore its equilibrium. So when the mothers in BoBo’s play group were pregnant before their babes could walk, I was appalled. But that’s just me.
The wine is now kicking in. My head is light and drizzly. I am confident that sleep will come tonight – eventually. In the meantime, you have a post to read that has no point what so ever.