last night I awoke in a terror around 3 am. e had not yet come to bed (this is normal on nights he works, as he doesn't usually get home until midnight or 1 a.m. and then stays up late as he unwinds.) but last night it bothered me. really, really bothered me. I called to him, asked him to come to bed. he said he was on his way. within five minutes, I was screaming. the terror was in every cell in my body, I couldn't lie there in bed one second longer. I got up, and started scrubbing my bathroom. when that was finished I moved into the kitchen. e came in and got me as I stood washing dishes and sobbing. he held me, and brought me back to bed. even with him there in bed with me, breathing with me, crying with me, reassuring me and loving me, it took me probably thirty minutes or so to resume a regular breathing pattern and to fall asleep. it was awful.
this morning, I woke up early.
and started cleaning.
I feel a lot like Lady MacBeth, or at least her words came to mind this morning as I scrubbed out pots and pans and scoured countertops: "Out damn spot." I don't remember enough from high school english class to remember the story of Lady MacBeth, I am ashamed to admit. but I recall an image of her hysterically washing her hands of blood and uttering those words. (I think it's because she killed someone. Note to self: drinking during lunch in high school and then being out of it for afternoon classes makes one sound like a dolt in trying to recall great works of literature.) So I don't know that the analogy is entirely perfect, since I really don't feel like I *killed* Otis, I really don't.
at the same time, it's like his blood is everywhere, and I can't scrub hard enough to remove it. there will never be enough organization in the house to bring him back to me. it's like I'm still nesting, still trying to make my home perfect enough so that maybe, just maybe, he'd want to come back and live here with us.