I'm really becoming more immobilized by the day. I hope it's just a rough patch. My analogy of the day- since these images seem to leap out at me...a stone mortar and pestle...I feel ground up...like I can't get any smaller.
I keep thinking about all of those mundane things that will never happen again. You coming up beside me to take my bag and carry it for me...you reaching for my hand while you carry your cello on your shoulder, leading me down some little street on the lower east side to watch you play...you bringing me a glass of water at night after Audrey's gone to sleep, or just simply telling me I look nice. I miss being loved...I really do miss it. For almost eleven years there was someone in the world who knew me more intimately than anyone, and yet, still loved me more than anyone. That person is gone and now, no matter who tells me they're here for me- the fact is that there is no one in the world that loves me like that. With your love. The years of history and worldless intimacy are just scattered memories that I try desperately to catch and write down.
I sorted through your DVD collection- you loved movies. I bought boxes at IKEA for them. I took out the one I had bought- "I am Sam" which you said was horrible. I'll get rid of it. Yours I'll keep- you had good taste in movies. One day maybe Audrey and I can watch them together and try to see what you saw. I have not watched one movie since you died. That is something we did together. I so enjoyed our commentaries and critiques afterwards.
A few days ago, something made me think of the name of the nurse in the hospital after I had Audrey. We didn't find her very helpful and she had a different name that you would still say in a sarcastic, mocking tone when we recalled my whole labor experience...but the other day, I couldn't remember her name. I felt so lost and so desperate, because I knew if you were here, you'd tell me right away. It's like that with so much of my life experience- lost.