Dreaming of Art

I dreamt about him. I was coming out of Pallas and Ezra's room and he was standing in the hall. "Hi!" I said, thrilled, as if he had come home early from work.

And we stood there for a moment, smiling at each other.

"Can I touch you?" I asked, for the last time I dreamed about him I had tried to hug him, only to touch cold air before he could tell me it was too late.

This time he nodded.

And when I reached out my hand, his hand was warm and firm, just like it used to be. Our hands together, his large white one, with my small brown one reminded me of those photos of the white worker holding the African child's hand.

I woke before I could place my cheek on his chest. I lay still, breathing slowly attempting to remember that feeling, to push it into my physical memory so next time, when I want to, I can remember it with ease.

My grief was shallow, suffocating fits of hysteria. Now it's thick, mournful moans and longing. The longing is like, is like a cord that is coming from me and reaching, stretching, tugging at me, different force of pull at different times. Sometimes it pulls me over. Along this line is my desire to hear him, to touch him, to see those deep blue eyes looking back at me. The longing is bearable, resonates with a low, almost imperceptible hum. It causes me to feel like something is missing only I can't figure out what exactly it is.

As it tugs, it detaches my skin from my muscles leaving this hollow space. This empty place. Nothing to fill it. It's not his immediate presence that I miss so much anymore, it's his lack of presence throughout the future years that make me wish him back. How is it possible he won't see Langston play volleyball or football, Pallas win an art award or Ezra get kicked out of class for telling the unwanted truth to a teacher's face. I don't understand how he can miss all that is coming.

And in this new emptiness, in this longing, I can see how I can go on.

And that just makes me sad.