I just woke up from a dream about you. You were the one who always remembered dreams. It was something we talked about in the mornings before we threw back the covers and put our feet on the floor. Me, not so much. I was always pretty sure I had dreamed the night before; I could just never remember them. Certainly not the way you always did. After you died, I just stopped dreaming all together. But not tonight.
You came back. I was so happy. We talked and laughed and did things together. Like listening to music and cooking and taking the dogs for walks. We had this game we started playing where we would call each other on our phones and talk even though we were sitting right there together. We would watch each other while we talked on the phone. It was silly. I would record the calls so I could listen to them later.
Then one day I tried to listen to them and it was only my voice. I called you, but you wouldn’t pick up the phone. I called and I called. I was frantic. Where were you? Why weren’t you answering? I needed you to pick up the phone.
You came home and I yelled at you. I insisted that we play our game. This time I wanted you to play it right and not mess up the recording. I called you again. Looking right at you, screaming at you. “Answer the phone. Answer the phone.”
You looked so sad when you said, “I can’t. I’m dead.”
I woke up.
And so here I am, crying in the middle of the night in this quiet and lonely house. Missing you. Wishing all the wishes again that you had made a different choice. Feeling like this path to healing has looped back again. Again. Just when I thought I was doing so well.
I miss you. Nothing about your suicide is good or right or fair. I miss you. And tonight I am sad.