2.10.14

You're here, and you wake up shivering at midnight.  And you pull the covers from underneath the dog sleeping at your feet.  And you glance over at your husband snoring next to you, and you're warm. 

Here, and you’re standing in front of your class.  And you feel a sign of life from deep within.  And you’re full of anticipation to meet her, and it’s secret, and it’s amazing.

You’re here, and you are driving your brother to work.  And he leaves his Modest Mouse CD in your car.  And the next day you listen to it and remember him singing next to you, and you realize all of the things that could have gone without ever happening. 

You’re here, and you are out of staples.  And you are complaining about something mundane, something useless.  And you are happy that you can justify caring about such things again. 

You’re here, and you are standing outside just before it rains.  And in the breeze you catch your favorite smell. 

Here, and you are out to dinner and your brother orders the Pot Roast.  And you are talking to him about something that happened at work as you try to mask the elation you feel because he can read a menu.  And you mentally count the steps to the bathroom in case you start to cry. 

Here, and you see yourself laughing through a car window. And you notice that your smile isn’t the same. 

You're here, and you’re picking up your son from DayCare.  And he doesn’t see you at first, so you linger in the hallway for a moment.  And you’re watching him stack his blocks.  And he sees you, and you catch his smile the moment before he gets up to run into your arms.  And it’s here that you know why you were born. 

Here, and you’re driving to work at 6:30 in the morning.  And it’s dark for most of the drive.  And you’re entering the on-ramp just as the sun is rising.  And you feel a burning in your chest as you drive into the light.

Here, and it’s December, and you are folding socks in a bedroom, and you hear your husband singing “Silver Bowls” as he empties the dishwasher.  And you smile, and you're lucky. 

Here, and something funny is said.  And you catch your brother's gaze, and he's different.  And you know it.  And something is tugging at your chest, and you swallow hard. 

You’re here, and it’s April, and your knees give out and your heart stops for a second.  And you look around and see familiar faces contorted into terrifyingly foreign expressions.  And the doctor is shaking his head.   And the chairs are cold and the air is still.  And your mind is racing and you can’t breathe, and you can feel yourself slipping away. 

Here, and the hallway is shrinking.  And the police officer is describing the sounds your brother made as he held his hand.  And the lights flicker, and you want to run but your legs weigh a million pounds. 

You’re here, and someone is asking your brother his name and he says “Tom Collins” because he just heard it on the television.

Here, and you are signing the visitors log.  And you’re making small talk with the receptionist.  And you pretend to recall the forecast from last night.   And you’re smiling, and you’re wondering if she knows how badly you want to give up.

And you're here.
And you're here. 
And you're here.

Because you never did.