Woke up at 3:30 and couldn’t go back to sleep.
I feel all my bones and the muscles attached to them, my flesh working still, almost strong. I feel all the hungers still and the pleasure of their satisfaction.
A time will come when there’s no more room for hungers—I know that from being sick even that short time—when pain and trouble of body take up all the room living gives them. But that time is not now. Not for me. Not yet.
Dave is well on his way there—he’s good at not pining over what he does not have, but I remember what he has done for me.
I remember with gratitude that he has let me use him for more than 30 years as a substitute for loving. He let me stir up his intensity and use it as a launching pad for my own until now even the memory---the senses of it, all its touch and smell and taste—is enough to touch off my own.
I am still living even as he is learning how to die.
A breeze stirs the curtains this early morning. I hear a dove. The air brings a slight chill.
I feel alive.