knowing that he is still on this planet, in the same city, even, and yet totally closed to me: that he has an independently functioning subjectivity thinking all kinds of thoughts (rages, fears, probably nostalgia too) about me, about others, and I no longer have any access to that. Well, whatever.
So many haunting moments. Where is the sound of the coffee grinder in the morning (that he would muffle with a dishtowel)? Or that daily, almost banausic, phone call at 4:45 asking what's for dinner, or what's happening tonight. Or walking back from the station at a certain point either him or me saying "kitties!" knowing they are waiting at the door to greet us.
I mean me. They greet me. Nemo gets under the covers with me in the morning, looks right into my eyes, purrs.
Sometimes Nemo runs into the hallway as if he's looking for something. I mean, he always did that, but he does that more now.
Understanding the meaning of the phrase "at a loss." So much fluctuation: I don't know what mood each day will bring. My behavior mystifies even me. Most of you probably missed the photo of me in my underwear here yesterday morning. My sympathies go out to you!
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