The Fear

The Fear

I wake up every morning and I think it. I look into his beautifully small eyes and know it. I cross the street and figure it. All of these things can come to an end in an instant. But yet I keep myself open for the worst pain any human could ever feel.

Standing in the kitchen, his waist presses against the low counter while he leans back to study my face. I've fallen from an unstoppable frenzy of utter happiness to a dark sullen expression of the utmost amount of dread. He doesn't speak yet for he doesn't know what to say to ease the fear that he knows has most likely washed through me like a vicious wave that thrashed during the current storm raging. One word could trigger the tears that would fall heavier than the rain. A single movement could produce the scream that rang louder than any thunder that roared from above. But he cannot leave me this way.

"Baby," he begins hesitantly, "not now. Don't worry now. Be happy."

My lip quivers. I try to hold myself together for him. There isn't much more he can take before his concentration is focused on only and he is open to anything. Anything that I cannot protect him from. A bullet, a knife, a car, or even a fatal fall. But the images worsen. I can see the coffin, the funeral, the loneliness. He is my crutch and without those eyes I would surely fall.

"Please," he picks up the salt shaker and tries to entice me with my deadliest love of all, "Salt is here, never fear!" Oh how horribly he tries. I want to pull together. For him, while he's here, cheer up!

But the lightning flashes. Thunder roars. Rain pours. And I remember all of the ignorant fools that still find a grotesque thunderstorm still a perfect time to chatter on a cell phone. I remember the statistics saying something about cellphone users have the reflexes of a 83-year-old when behind the wheel. I think of how one of these days he may be courageously crossing the street when it seems clear enough and one motorist decides, yes, today is the day I will drive down this road at unimaginable speed and prove to some young man that he is not invincible.

Yet he stands there and tries to tell--with the eyes of an angel--he is invincible and we will grow old together. But then I remember that a man's life expectancy is lower than that of a female due to their higher levels of testosterone. And I now see myself an old lady coming to my time, but he falls short and lands right into a six foot hole where I can't reach him.

He knows now that as the tears stream down my face I'm lock and chained to my thoughts and only I hold the key to the shackles that now binds my mind. Without much he takes me to the bus and sees me off with more kind kisses and gentle goodbyes that I do not accept. For goodbye means the end. It means no more. It means loneliness.

As I turn myself to face the window as we pass the first intersection I see something peculiar, something I found alarming all too late.

I see a speeding truck. And it's not stopping.