stillness

Everything was still. Absolutely still. Not a sound. Not a leaf rustling in the tree outside my bedroom window.

I felt still like the leaves. Like everything had stopped. Perhaps in some ways it had. I lay there thinking about the stillness, part of it.

Then it was broken. The thump of a tail. A pleading pair of brown eyes peeking up from beside the bed. Awaiting our Sunday morning ritual.

I peeled myself out of bed, determined to find something to break through the stillness that seemed to have permeated my very being.

Tears rolled down my cheeks involuntarily as we walked. I couldn’t help the sadness that had come over me. And I couldn’t imagine anything that would.

Memories streamed in my head. But all of the tough times seemed to have been filtered. It was as if my memory had put on a pair of rose-colored glasses.

My favorite stand of pine trees reminded me of our hikes and walks. A song on a passing car stereo of amazing nights at shows. A petunia. A crumbling set of concrete stairs.

Every little thing reminded me. Of the great times we had together. Of all the plans we had made for the summer that I had been so looking forward to.

At the coffee shop, on our walk home, in line at the grocery store, everywhere I went, the tears just started. Without warning. People would look at me questioningly. I would look away.

It’s nearly impossible to believe now. But I know someday, the rose-colored memories will fade. I know the tears will subside. I know these feelings of stillness will pass.

Even knowing it to be true doesn’t make believing it any easier right now.