The Cursed Sun

I awoke when the light began pounding on my temple, like a desperate salesman at my front door. It was just as unwanted. I pulled the covers up to block it but the damage had been done; I was awake, which pissed me off because I had no interest in being conscious. I went to bed last night praying to every conceived god to forever keep me asleep, a mass prayer that went unnoticed.

It took a second for my brain to get all of its synapses firing, and when it did the sorrow began consuming me. It started in my face, now flush and hot, and worked its way down. I could feel it devour every cell. It spread through me the same way lightning rapes the sky; unforgiving and unstoppable. As it washed over me, images of my son flashed in my head. The mental collage followed a linear timeline. It started with him as a baby laying on my chest in the hospital, then as a toddler, followed by his first day of preschool, then grade school, and then ending with him laying in his casket. His favorite baseball hat covered his smooth, bald head. His translucent skin and sunken eyes told a story that even a passing stranger would know. The culmination of a year-long struggle had been frozen in time. The sweeping sorrow and inner photo-montage subsided as one, leaving me numb and motionless.

This was day one and I knew, hoped, it would be the worst of it. Nothing was the same, in obvious ways and in not. The sun kissing my face in the morning now felt intrusive and presumptuous. The background noise of life beyond my window was no longer soothing. It was banal and insulting. Every car, every voice, every sound was a taunting reminder that their world hadn't stopped, only mine.

I had resolved myself to simply lie here, to slowly wither away until I no longer woke up. This was my protest to the new reality that I didn't ask for. I owed the world nothing anymore, and more importantly, I didn't care what it thought. Choosing to get out of this bed would mean relearning how to function. I no longer knew how to speak or how to work. I couldn't even trust my legs to remain steady underneath me, nor would it be fair to ask them to.

This resignation made me feel good. I had a plan and I felt at peace with it as I flipped my pillow over to the dry side. Having readjusted, I notice the piece of paper on my nightstand. It's folded three or four times and I can see on the flap sticking up. It says, "Mom." I was afraid to read the words my son had written to me and put it off, because regardless of what was on that paper, it could only add to my pain. However, to not read it would be betrayal, so reluctantly I reach out and grab the note and begin opening it. I can already see his bad penmanship in red writing through the folds. Once opened, the note reads, "Mom, thank you for being with me everyday. I'm sad that I won't be with you soon but glad you'll be able to sleep in your own bed again. I love you. P.S. don't forget to feed Max."

The decision was no longer mine and as I pulled off the covers and started getting out of bed, a thought crossed my mind; though everything was different, my purpose was the same.