Â§hria's Spot

I keep two pillows on my bed

Michele asks me if I would ever consider getting back with Jerry, or if I regret leaving him.

I laugh before I say, "NO, no and not in this lifetime!"

That is obviously the wrong answer.

Then she asks if I am happy with Lyle.

"Who? Oh, what's his name who's never around, never on line and doesn't have a phone," I say. "Yeah, he's perfect for me. Sort of the Goddess' version of retribution for me screwing up at love so many times."

Obviously that is a wrong answer, too.

Michele has this way of cutting to the point, no matter how many squishy layers of vital organs it's hidden under. I think that's why I sort of let work/school/kids and not being able to walk take me away from her these past few years. I knew that I would always disappoint her and that hurt because she is so me.

That's how she knows how to find the point, under all that blood and guts. She has the same one.

Maybe more of us have that point than I am realizing right now.

After a few seconds with her eyes closed to wait for the pain to subside, she looks me in the eye with that look. The Michele-look. The one that goes through you, all your ancestors and at least seven generations of your offspring yet to come.

"You know, dear, I love you," she says.

I brace myself.

"So I just want you to know that you've always thought less of yourself than you really are. If you could just see yourself the way I see you..."

'What?' I think. 'As a spinster cuddling with my dog every night while watching the fire on channel 17 and reading a 'good' book until I fall asleep on the sofa?'

"I wish you could see how really smart and beautiful you are."

'Uh huh, there are a few other people in this world I would like you to talk to,' I think. 'Maybe if they... if he... then I...' as two years of the damage wrought by unrequited love flashes through my mind like a trout in a stream of consciousness.

I'm trying not to cry as I look at her. She is barely half alive in that body with her legs like two pieces of wood and her broken arm cradled against her in a sling. Really, only her head, left arm and torso are sort of working. (But she is still knitting and trying to take care of me - as always, driven to create and to nurture.)

Her eyes are the same, though. So huge. So beautiful. So seeing. And she is seeing that there is still much for her to do in this world and no time to do it.

"You know, this shouldn't be happening to me," she says, as her eyebrows lift and her eyes fill with tears.

That's too much for me. I break down. So much for being strong and 'helping' my friend.

"You're so right! In so many ways. And I am so going to miss you. Please don't go!" I wail.

"Yeah, like I have a choice," Michele says as she wipes a tear away. "I just want you to remember me, as I really am. Me, inside."

"Trust me, sweetest. No one who has ever known you could ever forget you."

So, that's what this is about.

It's about remembering Michele and it's about remembering what she says to me, what she means to me and what I need to do about it. This is my stab at writing it down so that later, when the job/kids/loneliness starts to take me away from it, I will remember and get back on track.

So what do two pillows have to do with Michele?

She knows, as well as I know, that I have a lot of love to give. That I am not supposed to be alone. She knows, without me even telling her, that I keep two pillows on my bed to keep a spot for someone. Just in case.

I would be so happy to hear the man I love (whom ever he may turn out to be) snoring beside me every night for the rest of my life. I would be happy to fetch a blanket from the closet because he keeps stealing the one we are supposed to share. Just to have him there would make it all okay.

Well, it would be okay until he started chewing with his mouth open or making little grunting noises while he ate. Then I would probably have to smack him upside the head before going out to buy a book and some doggy treats.

Michele probably knows as well as I do, that I will be alone for the rest of my life.

It shouldn't be that way any more than she should die so young.

Michele says, "what can we do to change it?"

What I intend to do is keep two pillows on my bed, call her every day until she is gone and write notes to myself in my blog so I don't forget.

But then, Michele whispers to me, as I am about to leave, "Sometimes, I wish it would be all over. That I could just die. I haven't seen the sun in so long. I can't even get out of this chair."

And I think that maybe I should put that second pillow away and get on with things as they are because, really, I am utterly helpless to change anything.

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Post-note

I wish that I could love me even half as much as I love her. That would make her happy before she dies and that's all I really want.

It may even help me find love in this world before I die.

But, really, should be me on that chair instead of her. I truly suck at life.

And, one last thing for tonight... I will never have a recliner in my house, not even for love.