Family

I'm at your house without you, but I am too tired to spy, to care about photos from your past, to search for love letters. I'm in your bed waiting for your return, listening to George Noory on Coast to Coast AM. I hear the front door open and shut loudly. You are home. You walk into the room and quickly take off your clothes down to sleeping wear and crawl into the bed.

"Tired?" I ask.

"I'm bushed," you reply.

I spend too much time worrying you’ll die, or I’ll die.  I want you to know, if I never get to say goodbye, that you’re my dreams.  You’re my future.  You’re my family.  And a part of me worries I’ll die before I get to say those words.  That people won’t know how important you are to me, because we didn’t get there yet.  I worry the world won’t know, that you won’t know, that you’re all I’ll ever need.  I want that chance to tell you, to show you, what you are to me, my family. 

You've had a tough day and wanted to stay home.  A friend gave you a ride to a midnight Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Your first in years. I understand completely -- the need not to go alone. I only wish I could have went as well.

"Your daughter called," I say as we curl up in the bed.

"No problems," you reply. "Tell me in the morning."

Everything feels okay that we are together -- two souls in the bed. You say goodnight as you turn off the lamp. I go to sleep to the sounds of you breathing. Comfort. "It's going to be okay," echoes throughout my busy mind as I drift off into slumber land. I am here with my family and it is going to be okay.