It’s difficult to discern one day from the next. I arrive home from work at approximately the same time every day. I let my dog out, clean the litter box and then desperately search for any other tasks to pass the time. Tonight I washed out my travel mug and filled all of the humidifiers with water. That took up approximately 8 minutes of my evening. I looked at the clock hoping it was late enough to take an Ambien and check out. But it was only 6:07 pm. That doesn’t imply I can’t go to bed but it does guarantee that I will wake up at 2 am in my usual state of panic after having some dream in which Jason is either mad at me, and we’re not speaking, or he is traveling and I can’t seem to get in touch with him. I can’t recall the last time I had a pleasant or uplifting dream. The only ones I can remember are terrifying and unsettling. Consequently Glenfiddich has made a home on my nightstand since I’ve traded out water for something more sedative.
Each night I walk through the house from room to room observing the emptiness and absorbing the silence. Everything is just as I left it. I miss the trails of existence Jason left throughout the house. Mail and loose change on the kitchen counter, laptop bags and papers from work strewn all along the coffee table and sofa, muddy running shoes left by the backdoor, globs of dried toothpaste clinging to the sides of the bathroom sink, dirty dishes hastily tossed in the dishwasher with no regard for strategic placement or pre-rinsing. Now when I come home from work there isn’t a thing out of place. The only proof of life within this house is the unmade bed and the occasional hair ball purged by one of the cats Jason disliked so much.
I watch television while mindlessly eating something that was once a frozen block and wait until bedtime, which seems to come earlier and earlier these days. I can’t focus enough to pursue a hobby or even read a book. All I think about is death and how it comes too soon for some, and not early enough for others.