I want to see you, too

It’s muggy and raining unpredictably today. In other words, a typical day in this part of Texas.

With weather like this, I think of you. I imagine myself sprawled on the living room carpet, reading while glancing up at the TV when they start setting up the cliffhanger. I keep the volume low, but the door is closed and mommy always says only a hurricane could wake you up. It’s that lazy time after we’ve all washed the dishes from lunch but before when you wake up, walk out refreshed, and ask me what I want to have for dinner. I relished this quiet time when it felt like it was just me in the house. Now when I visit, I am the only one here when mom is at work. I could keep the TV on for background noise, but I still try to listen for the sound of your occasional snore-splosions. (Yes, I still call them that.) They spooked me whenever I was deep in one of my novels about shallow rich kids, but I’m not as easily scared now. Nothing could ever scare me like the number on the heart rate machine.

I might nap in a few minutes. Then, a bright tone before I could silence my phone. My best friend from high school asks me if I want to go out for dinner and drinks when the rain lets up. I think about how I’m feeling. I’m so settled here in bed, and grief weighs on me like the comforter. I tell them I’ll get back to them in a bit. They are persistent and call me a downer and other harmless insults, which they know I will take as well-meaning challenges.

They haven’t seen me since I came home. They want to see me before I leave again.

It does not take much for me to reply, relenting, but I am actually so joyful and grateful inside. I decide to set an alarm after all.

I just want to see you, too.