I woke up alone. I had found out when I reached out my hand, groggy and blind without my glasses, only to touch my body pillow. It was unlike my dream where he had been asleep beside me. Arms around me. In a tiny apartment I didn’t recognize, built by my own imagination so vividly and realistically crappy that it amazed me I hadn’t seen it before in reality.
It was 6:30am. My alarm sang “Spend the Day in Bed” by Over the Rhine. I got out from under my blankets and stumbled to the bathroom. My cat sat looking at me the whole while, pondering if she should leave the bed, then decided against it. I fumbled with my pill bottle to retrieve a tiny Levothyroxine tablet. It took me a few tries to swallow the tiny thing. Trying to keep it from sticking to my tonsils and the back of my throat took a great deal of water and concentration. Once it was successfully consumed I wandered back to my bed.
His good morning messages waited patiently for me through out my morning ritual, as it usually did. A simple “Good morning my love,” or “Good morning beautiful,” was all it said, but every ounce of conversation from the evening before gave those simple words meaning. His trademark conclusion to every conversation was the reminder my heart needed that I was valued, respected, and loved beyond the words he had to tell me. “I am the luckiest man in the world.” He would say it with such conviction that I had no choice but to believe him. He didn’t care what other men had in those moments. He had me, and I was enough.
I was enough.