The Things That He Said
I don’t scream. I simply close my eyes and he’s gone again. Then the tears come freely. My chest is heaving and I’m sobbing loudly, but I know no one is there to hear. My nose is running and my eyes are red and my face is slick with tears. I’m crying because I miss him. I’m crying because I never cried for Mom. I’m crying because I’m afraid I’m going crazy.
It was easier to simply hear his voice. To hear his voice when I was alone, that was a warm touching experience, right? But to feel his touch, to see him bring me a glass of milk, that’s the edge of madness.
I take off the headphones. Maybe I was wrong to try to drown out his voice. Maybe I should let it happen. I should welcome his voice. It’s just a healthy mind trying to hang on to a little bit of a loved one.
I should welcome his voice in my mind. But I’m lying to myself. It wasn’t his voice that’s kept me from sleeping. That made me put the headphones on. It’s the things that he said.