Reverie

Some days, I wake up and forget you're gone. Some days, it is all I can remember.

There is gratitude that some try, though mostly fail, to understand where I am. They judge. They see me alone and feel pity. They see me spend money, and feel envy. They see me date, and they say it is too soon. Or too late. Of course seeing children makes me sad. Of course the death of others reminds me of my grief. Of course I am pining every day, loathe to get out of bed and live.

And yet, all and none of these things are true.

The windows into our lives, the ones that fits into our pocket, are false. Despite knowing so, we continue to accept it as the absolute truth and fear looking for other answers, other truths. There are many.

My words need an editor as much as these glimpses are edited. And yet.

And yet, the windows drive us apart. A sentence typed quickly this morning to me haunts me throughout the day. Did she mean that? Does she know it was hurtful? Was it even about me? It is rarely about me but it always feels like it is about me.

I have grown to hate the windows into other people lives. I often choose to close them all, and be alone. Alone I now understand so well. Solitude is quiet and I only have myself to contend with.

When you first left, I could not stand it. The quiet. I'd fill the house with music. Talking to myself. I'd talk to you. Anything. The quiet felt oppressive. The heavy coat that grief wrapped around me.

I find comfort in it now. I listen. To myself. To others. I sit in coffee shops and write, and hear the joys and sadness of others. I feel their warmth. It is often enough. This window is endless but also a voyeur's window. Emotions, care, love between myself and what I see is rare.

The great teachers will tell you I am seeking self-acceptance and finding peace within myself. It is not peace but ease in discomfort that I feel.

What was will never be again.

I must be who I am, not who I was.

And not everyone will approve. Or like it. And they will judge, silently. The windows teach us that to be a voyeur is to be a judge on the success of another's life. We are not allowed to just watch, just observe, but we must deem it good or bad. Success or failure. Better off than me or worse off.

The windows are the liars. The editing is jerky, obvious. Why we listen to them, I'm not sure. But sitting in the discomfort of our own solitude, looking at ourselves, and not through a window, is the challenge.

You hated the windows. You were the one who would ask me to be here, with you, at dinner. And I never was.

And yet, now I know how, but you'll never know. Now I would put the windows away, and look into your ever-changing eyes and maybe, just maybe see what you wanted me to see but would never say out loud. Those hidden bits, the ones I am so angry at, maybe they'd come out in that shared solitude.

I'll never know.