sweetbriarpoet
Flower Fortune- Sweetbriar: Poetry and fragrance.
Seventy-First Entry
Still sick.
And I keep having these dreams about Edward, who has come to visit me a couple of times. I see his face in them, bright and bearded and intelligent. I trust him and I touch him and...I don't know. There is a feeling there, as if I could not ever bear to see him leave: an ache that is much deeper than sorrow. Maybe it is this sickness in me. Everything I read, everything I observe, seems sorrowful. Perhaps I am bipolar. To have gone from joyous to sorrowful so quickly. It is a navy blue sorrow.
Harry and Rev are taking care of the children single-handedly. Though Harry still must go to work, he goes at night and comes home exhausted. No sleep for him, no sort of refreshing night. His face drags, his eyes are black with sleeplessness, and again I feel a sorrow. I am twenty-three, he is twenty-four. We are very young.
Rev is not sorrowful, nor sad, nor tired. He is ready to play surrogate mother, ready to change diapers and cook meals and clean toys and goo off the living room rug. He brings me tea with honey and makes sure I have enough blankets. He does not allow me to speak, but draws scalding hot, icy cold baths for me. He brings me books from the upper shelf in the magic room.
Selfishly, I want Edward now. His skinniness, his darkness, his deep voice that reads out loud.
But I am sick.
And cannot even kiss my own children.
And I keep having these dreams about Edward, who has come to visit me a couple of times. I see his face in them, bright and bearded and intelligent. I trust him and I touch him and...I don't know. There is a feeling there, as if I could not ever bear to see him leave: an ache that is much deeper than sorrow. Maybe it is this sickness in me. Everything I read, everything I observe, seems sorrowful. Perhaps I am bipolar. To have gone from joyous to sorrowful so quickly. It is a navy blue sorrow.
Harry and Rev are taking care of the children single-handedly. Though Harry still must go to work, he goes at night and comes home exhausted. No sleep for him, no sort of refreshing night. His face drags, his eyes are black with sleeplessness, and again I feel a sorrow. I am twenty-three, he is twenty-four. We are very young.
Rev is not sorrowful, nor sad, nor tired. He is ready to play surrogate mother, ready to change diapers and cook meals and clean toys and goo off the living room rug. He brings me tea with honey and makes sure I have enough blankets. He does not allow me to speak, but draws scalding hot, icy cold baths for me. He brings me books from the upper shelf in the magic room.
Selfishly, I want Edward now. His skinniness, his darkness, his deep voice that reads out loud.
But I am sick.
And cannot even kiss my own children.
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