A few summers back, I got in a floating accident. I had planned to kick off a log against the river bank, not expecting the rough water to suck me under. I have no idea how long I was under. Time moved impossibly slow as the undercurrent smashed me against sharp rocks, bruising me, while muddy waters filled my nose and mouth. I tried to stay calm and figure out which way would take me to the surface, but my inner tube was caught on a branch of the dead tree. It bobbed violently, pushing me back under, back under, back under, while the water churned me until I was disoriented again.
I have existed on this planet without you for a month and the time I almost drowned feels like nothing, anymore. I’m sure I haven’t taken a proper breath since I picked up my mom’s call, “There was an accident…”
The night before the crash I dreamt about you. You were standing in my living room, and I felt a sense of urgency that I couldn’t explain. I missed you. I missed your goofy texts, I missed your relaxed company, I missed the ease of our friendship. I woke up and almost texted you - knowing we’d laugh about the coincidence of dreams and gut feelings. And then my phone rang, and the dream wasn’t funny anymore.
Some days it’s easier, it feels like one of our long silences or the time you moved to Helena. I know you’re not here but my eyes gravitate towards the Hoagieville and Westside parking lots, searching for your car, expecting to see it. Goofy songs coincidentally play on my Spotify Discover, or on the radio as the rain starts pouring. I can laugh, I can almost breathe. I can miss you without hurting so fucking much.
Other days I feel like I’m drowning all over again. I see the world through blurred, muddy eyes, I can’t hear anything, my lungs feel like cement. I feel your absence like a gaping hole in my universe. You’re not a silly text away, and those days I’m painfully aware of it.
Last night I dreamt about you again. It’s a common occurrence, anymore. Even in a dream state, I could smell the inside of your car as I argued with you, telling you not to go. An ominous darkness in the background, that I couldn’t place. The smells, your voice, they were so vivid I didn’t know I was asleep. Right before I woke up, I remembered, panicked, and begged my brain to just let me sleep a little bit longer.
I’ve grieved as quietly as I can, feeling like I don’t deserve to ache so much. Feeling awkward and clumsy with my emotions; feeling exposed when I say something, write something, post anything. But people handle me with gentle care. My loved ones who have always known, old acquaintances who never guessed, my mom, my sister, my coparent’s mother. They share their grief with me and remind me that I’m not alone; there are hands reaching for me, to help me through this. They’re not you, and that sucks, but it helps still.
This morning I woke up with that same sense of dread in my stomach that I’ve been feeling all month. I cried a bit, and forced my shaking hands to scrub dishes and write. I made myself get dressed, took the kids to market, spent time with sweet, lovely friends who make me laugh, and bought too many veggies. I ate delicious snacks and sipped hot coffee and remembered the importance of self-care. It doesn’t hurt any less, nothing makes this easier, but I’m trying.
