Tears in the Night
A love story
Tears in the night, spilling from my bleary eyes.
My love, my lover, dying, gone, in some future realm I imagine almost with no effort.
Is it only my next thing to worry about now, when our life together is so rich and good and full?
Undoubtedly it is just an old and tired habit of waiting for loss, forgetting to believe, to allow that life can press on in this lovely way.
Or, (the worry asks), is it intuition, an inner-knowing, that I will someday not have him any more?
Both are true, as surely as trusting in the continuing good is a skill to hone, as certain as lifetimes become dusty memories.
The old lab with her deep voice barked low, once, then twice, at 3:40 in the morning.
The third time, I eased my body from our bed, just as the older Shepherd’s higher pitch joined in a short staccato.
Out into the dark hall and quickly down the stairwell I slipped to comfort with hushed tones the watchful dogs, both alert at the door, ready to confront whatever was taunting them out there in the night.
Shivering in the shadow of the deck light as the shapes of my good old four-legged friends wandered in darkness, to where did my thoughts travel, to later conjure such despair?
The white Shepherd gets confused, particularly after the sun has set, and I thought I may need to don pants and boots to help guide him back inside, but the trusty lab, my special girl of 12 years, waits at the deck stairs until our old boy sees her, and she leads him back inside where I give pets and quiet assurances of a job well done.
There is nothing out there, or they have effectively frightened it off, whatever it may have been.
I am protected and safe, the dogs are proud and curled again on couch cushions.
Upstairs, our bed is still warm, my lover still and quiet and still there.
Only when I have slipped in again next to his body unmoving in the night, do my thoughts race toward a life without him, and the tears swell hot, heavy, large and wet.
Is it because he is so solid, such a foundation for me, that I consider a life without him?
Is it only the night-version of my waking life, the yang of my profound appreciation for what I feel so poignantly in my waking hours?
Or was there something about the dogs, a real warning in the night, that started me spiraling down this rabbit hole of anguish?
It is only at night that I worry anymore.
It is only in the quiet darkness, an enormous goose down comforter wrapped around me, that I stumble down old twisting pathways, from accident, to revoked love, to death, and in those silent moments, they all feel entirely possible and real.
After so many years of worrying boldly in the light of day, I suppose this is an improvement.
He stirs slightly, his voice so quiet I cannot make out the words, but we know each other well, and I understand he is checking on me, asking if everything is okay.
I am comforted, and, careful to not draw him too far from his slumber, respectful of his sleep and alarm set to ring in less than two hours, I do not share my fears.
Silently I assure him all is well, my fingertips softly pressing on his hip, because caring for him is more important than reaching for assurances to quell my tears in the night.
Though I don’t remember drifting off, I emerge just slightly from what must have been a deep slumber, as he quietly rises and whispers in words I cannot make out, the cadence I recognize as his wish for me to be well.
He, now caring for me, knowing on some level I was awake in the night, the softest kisses upon my lips, once, twice, three times, before he slips out the door so I can continue to sleep, and we whisper our love to each other, not in words, as he leaves the house, each tending to our own wellbeing, as my worries become dust, supporting each other in this way, my fears and tears dissipating out into the ether, as I trust again in this lovely lifetime we have now, of love, of memories, of care.
© Lisa Thorne 2023.
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