At the end of a day, I wish I could pour out all of my emotions without thinking. I would set them aside instead of carrying them to bed. I wish when I wrote, my pen would let go of every bottled up feeling without hesitation or alarm or question. But, even with all that I write, sometimes I find I am not even completely honest with myself.
Like tonight when I sat in the stillness of my home and listened to the sound of nothing. The kids were sleeping after an eventful evening that started with a walk outside, then dinner, a bath, milk, bedtime stories, kisses, hugs, and prayers. Realization comes in doses. I noticed, fully noticed, how quiet it was. Seems like quite a while to finally notice this. I sat trying to visualize Shawn’s voice with my eyes closed. I couldn’t find it. I wanted to hear him say, “Lucy, I’m home.” As he used to tease. But, I couldn’t make his voice real. I don’t often admit that I am lonely or that I can’t remember all of him.
When I finally took the time to sit and reflect, I was consumed with the idea that it hasn’t even been seven months and I feel like I have walked on the road of eternity. An almost depressive thought swelled up inside me. Potentially, I have many years to go; many years to live with the truth of my loss. For the first time since Shawn died I was honest with myself: This is not going to be easy. Not that I wasn’t convinced of this before, I just think I chose to heavily ignore it.
This is not what I ever wanted. And even when I am distracted by good intentions or kind tributes, the fact remains that Shawn will never speak his voice again to me and that makes me feel an entirely new and hallow extent of lonely.
I wish these pages could hold all the tension in my heart. That way I wouldn’t have to bring it all to bed.
