The moon is waxing once again, and everything is going wrong. The day is creeping closer, looming in a clichéd sort of way, just on the undercurrent of every thought and motion. Addison got the photo book, the photo book, and looked at the pictures.
Pointing to one she said, "Who's that?"
"That's you and GG, when you were a little bitty baby," I told her. Sometimes I think she's mad at me because I'm not Mom.
Now that I think about it, I should have titled this differently. Let's just try this again.
"Not for You" -- Pearl Jam
So, going back to a...shared theory, it is rather unfortunate that I see, when free-associating the word 'heaven,' puffy clouds and Adam Sandler. Who knew that my mental image of heaven would forever be tinged by watching Happy Gilmore repeatedly?
Sometimes I dream of going to the mall in Cincinnati. Only this isn't your average everyday trip. Sometimes I'm driving to Florida, via Cincinnati, and end up at this crazy mall, exposition, old amphitheater place that is just weird. And always I am alone. I shouldn't be alone. I'm never alone now, so why am I alone? There are other people, sometimes, but they don't have bodies--I cannot grasp a hand or feel the brush of clothing or even the swish of my own hair. It's unnerving. What if one could not feel? I wake, in the dead of night, and upon realizing that I am, indeed, still safe in my huge soft bed, I often drift back to sleep and into the eerily vivid world of my strange dreams.
I wonder if that is how it must feel to be a ghost? To exist without being able to touch anyone, interact with someone you can see? It is a sickening feeling, an emptiness, to hope that someone who is dead could still be here.
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