What the Tuck?

I miss things that we never even did together. The other night in my dreams I tucked him in, pulling the blankets up to his neck as his legs wiggled in that way your legs will do when you find yourself between clean, crisp linen on a cold night. He closed his eyes and smiled in his ever-loving way, shrugging his shoulders up into a snuggle before relaxing under the warm, soft weight of his rainbow blanket. I leaned over him, drawing my face close to his, stopping just shy of his cheek to whisper, "I love you Jared, forever." I breathed in deep, then kissed him on the cheek, and he was warm, and he was soft, and most of all he was real. His cheek was as soft, alive, and reachable as the three cheeks I had kissed earlier that night while tucking in my own children.

I don't recall ever tucking him in before, so why would I give any number of things in trade to do so just once for real?

Gravity Without Pull

In rare moments, I am able to still both my body and my mind enough to imagine Jared sitting with me. It is more than a cozy feeling, a spiritual sensation, or my hazy imagination; no, he is right there next to me, smiling, talking, laughing, smoking a cigarette. I can see him, I can smell him, I can hear him, and my skin buzzes with that magnetic feeling from someone sitting close but not quite touching you. When I am with Jared I am able to leave the urgency of this world behind and take a peek at forever. It takes great effort; I am emotionally drained and physically shaken by the time the spell is broken, typically by a child rushing in with a tattle to tale, or a phone ringing in another room. This is the toughest time, I am like a junkie coming down from the high he knows he shouldn't have been on; I am mournful, beaten-down, and guilty, but I know that I will do it again, as soon as I am alone and still enough. For now the lows are worth the highs. I do however fear that one day his edges will blur, his features fade, his smells dissipate, and his sounds dampen. What will I do then?