I sleep in pajamas,
a white pair of cotton Capri ’s with pastel
polka dots and a pink tank top. The nightmares are sure to come. Toddlers will
scamper down the hallway past the nightlight’s glow from the bathroom. Either
one of the blond boys will charge into my master suite, an oversized room with a
his-and-her dresser set in cherry wood. The child will scream “da da” and crawl
over me to the free side of the king-size bed bedecked with chocolate and turquoise
comforter and sheets.
I used to sleep in
cotton panties, which he softly slid down my thighs and past my ankles before they
were tossed free by willing feet. Our tongues would find each other. Then, his
would explore my neck and breasts while I’d caress his strong back and glide petite
hands farther to his soft bottom. My hands would then guide his face back next
to mine. Gently, he would rock me to a place of completeness until we’d
collapse into each other. Other nights, I’d rest my nearly naked self onto him
fetal-like in an embrace until sleep would come.
Husband, father,
friend, no more, just a memory, empty space, void in my heart, and air in my
arms. Our twins reach for a daddy vanished from us. I turn to them, swallow my
pain, and quiet their fears whispering promises of security I cannot keep. I
curse Doug for building a life he couldn’t sustain leaving a family without its
head.
