I walk into a waiting room and you are sitting there.
"I miss you," you say. And I am taken by the fact you are speaking in present tense. The way you used to say it when we would go to long between visits and would exchange text messages. But you have been gone for nearly a year now. You give me a huge hug. The kind you always greeted me with when we would get together, in Boston, in Maine, in New Orleans.
I sit down next to you and I have a million questions but you are talking so fast. And the room is so full. And I have this sense that you have no idea what has happened. And I am afraid to tell you, because you do not seem sad and I don't want to make you sad.
The alarm jerks me awake and I am desperate to go back to sleep. To hear your voice and sit by you for just a little longer.
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