I wish I was tired. I would kill to be sleeping right now. There are lots of wishes, but this one takes center stage at 10:31pm tonight. I don't want to be awake anymore today.
As Kari lies near me in a mechanical bed, sleeping as deep as she has since around week sixteen of her pregnancy, I stare blankly at this screen, lost at where to navigate. I see those damn bookmarks dangling in front of me, all leading down familiar paths. MLB. Apartment Therapy. Bank. CraigsList. There are folders for gardening and for work and for blogs. There is my documents folder, one I opened and ventured to many times a day for business and personal bookkeeping. Now these little icons and words simply serve as a reminder of what I was doing before all of this happened, a life that seems so foreign and distant now.
I'm only left staring at a blank page that beckons me to slowly tap my fingers. Out of her white space and blinking cursor, she calls me to write about nothing and everything all at once, knowing this thing called grief has no formula or pattern. And tonight, a few measly written words seem like, at the very least, something.