She
She tends to insomnia more than anything else. Nights are met with a certain amount of anxiety; even though the thing that plagued her is gone, she still fears the pain of detonation. She still worries that her breath will choke her again, that the wind will fill her ears, that she will fall and not be able to stand. Once was enough. Once was more than enough.
She tugs at my hand every once in a while, this person who is still frightened of the day she was forced to confront her mortality and found herself called back to this life by a voice she forgot she once loved. I talk to her, try to soothe her fears. Sometimes I turn to my husband, who can pick apart her worries with impeccable, scientific logic, all the while letting her be scared and sad. Because she needs to feel it, to remind herself that she's still alive and human.
She jokes about it, calls herself a Zombie because she came back from the brink of death. It's a well-crafted defense mechanism that allows her to feel a little more normal, even as she runs out of breath just by climbing the stairs. Sometimes she can't get to sleep until three in the morning because she doesn't want to dream--it's become frightening, especially the dreams of being closed in, boxed up and buried, dreams she will not tell anyone about because it's been close to a year and the idea of not being past what happened to her is oddly stifling. The scar from her surgery throbs when the air is colder. This is a new idea of normal, created by the part of her mind that still hasn't wrapped itself around those five minutes of unconsciousness on the day she almost lost it all.
When she looks in the mirror she sees my face. When I smile, she smiles back. She’s always a little unsure of where she belongs. I want to touch her, to reassure her that she’s needed. She’s the part of me that is frightened. She’s the part of me that doesn’t know what to expect, the part of me that is still angry and sad about the last year and the thought that she should be over it by now, but isn’t. She was born the day I died and I love her all the more for that.
She tugs at my hand every once in a while, this person who is still frightened of the day she was forced to confront her mortality and found herself called back to this life by a voice she forgot she once loved. I talk to her, try to soothe her fears. Sometimes I turn to my husband, who can pick apart her worries with impeccable, scientific logic, all the while letting her be scared and sad. Because she needs to feel it, to remind herself that she's still alive and human.
She jokes about it, calls herself a Zombie because she came back from the brink of death. It's a well-crafted defense mechanism that allows her to feel a little more normal, even as she runs out of breath just by climbing the stairs. Sometimes she can't get to sleep until three in the morning because she doesn't want to dream--it's become frightening, especially the dreams of being closed in, boxed up and buried, dreams she will not tell anyone about because it's been close to a year and the idea of not being past what happened to her is oddly stifling. The scar from her surgery throbs when the air is colder. This is a new idea of normal, created by the part of her mind that still hasn't wrapped itself around those five minutes of unconsciousness on the day she almost lost it all.
When she looks in the mirror she sees my face. When I smile, she smiles back. She’s always a little unsure of where she belongs. I want to touch her, to reassure her that she’s needed. She’s the part of me that is frightened. She’s the part of me that doesn’t know what to expect, the part of me that is still angry and sad about the last year and the thought that she should be over it by now, but isn’t. She was born the day I died and I love her all the more for that.
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