It’s bed time. Past bed time. It’s late, is what it is, but my fears are working over time.
I start imagining things. Things like, What if it never gets better? What if this is it?
My hopes are nothing but day dreams. Aren’t they?
(I hate the silence that remains after I ask questions like that.)
At night, all that seemed possible, all that seems worth fighting for, all that seemed important, all the little, daily tasks that I have to do before i can do the things I want to do — are bigger, more formidable and time-consuming than the work I must do before I will ever know if my “work” matters. My hope, as if it is a platitude painted on an old crumbling wall begins to chip off. The dried paint flakes away and the reveal underneath terrifies me.
What if he never comes back? What if he never finds his way?
What if I never find my way OUT?
What if I am still sitting here next year, with my list of plans, the same list of plans I’ve carried with me now since — forever?
What if he does come back and we still only talk about our hope, but never see, touch, feel, know, smell, taste, wear or hear the results of all those hopes? What if our children grow up, grow away and I am left here still hoping for something in my life that I know is my home, is my refuge, is my peace and is something that gives me the will to continue?
What if my children look at me one day and wonder what do we do with her?
Oh. My. God. Cannot allow that.
It’s you and me, God.
Must kick fear in the fucking ass.