thrown

"So, when are we going to have a baby?"

Few questions can make one lose her balance even while lying in bed about to drift off into some much needed post-holiday sleep. This is one of them.

The question might not have been so shocking had it not come from the lips of my husband, also lying next to me in bed about to drift off. My entire body went tense. I could actually feel each muscle in my body freeze and hold their breath while my brain quickly assessed the situation.

Is he serious? Is he joking? Is he dreaming? Am I dreaming? IS HE SERIOUS?

I don't know why, but I've rarely, if ever, allowed myself to think of actually having babies, kids, a family. Maybe all those years trying NOT to get pregnant -- condoms, pulling out, the Pill -- and those two scary I-Think-I-Might-Be-Pregnant-Holy-Crap-What-Am-I-Gonna-Do? moments scarred me for life, but I've always been weary about family fantasizing (although I do admit to an occasional baby name picking game here and then). I can hardly remember ever wanting kids as a little kid. I didn't want the cuddly baby in the crib. I wanted the fancy Barbie in the hot pink Corvette.

Anyway, there it was. One of those questions that just hangs in the air -- words strung together like paper lanterns to be lit or taken down.

when faith remains

I hate that we don't talk about her. I miss her. He misses her. We all miss you. "All" is a lot of people. Many, too many, touched by your spirit which is where now? Where have you gone? I used to believe -- believe in "the spirit remains", in "they live on through us", but really, I think it's all bullshit. I think it's something someone made up to make others feel better and not be afraid. By "others", I mean those who have yet to lose so suddenly or severely. Those that have been through it -- living with it -- well, they'll smile and nod and pretend those stupid sayings mean something but in truth, in the dark of night, when sleep is the elusive enemy and you can't find a clear thought to save your mind, then those stupid sayings are insulting.

You sit in my heart. You sit in my soul.

Some days it's fine, okay. But some days I think it's hard to breathe -- hard to think about a heaven or a G(g)od that would dare take you from us. It's hard to pray, bow down to someone who took ________ from you. And that's the awful truth. The one we get to live with. When it comes down to it, faith isn't for the fearless, for the lucky ones; they have plenty of it already, masquerading as perkiness. Faith exists for those desperately grasping at a semblance of normalcy. And finding out there might not be one.

I knew Barbara only for a short time -- a little over a year. Who am I kidding? I knew her for 15 months and 5 days (as if I didn't count).

Fifteen months. A life can change in 15 months. The world around you can spin backwards; the sun appear in the middle of the night; the stars linger till noon. Fifteen months and everything can change. Fifteen months and your life can fumble into something so unbelievably different from when you first knew it...

Yesterday, her son turned 30. Thirty years. I wonder if he's counting the years to come or counting the years to come without her. Something told me, over an Italian dinner last night, it's the latter. Something tells me nothing I buy, make, write, say, do, wish, think, hope for will make a difference. It's nice of me to try, I'm sure he thinks, but really, you can't undo World War III. And that puts me at somewhat of an awkward passing. It's like I'm falling short or something. Like no matter how hard I try, I will never be the perfect wife because he will never get to touch her again. Smell her hair. Hear a sweet Hello over the telephone in the middle of a busy work day. Feel the delicate embrace of a hand sun kissed in the warm South Florida sun. No matter what, I can't make my husband's fantasy come true. Fishnet stockings and push up bras just won't do on this one.