In one phone call, some far off terror arrives in your face, extending it's boot into your chest. All fear becomes one fear. Though this is not as much a relief as it may sound. You fear that this horrid event, now sharing your holiday, now sipping your egg nog, right there hugging grandma and being thankful for your baby's gifts, this horror might continue. Fear is not a bang. A death. That first burst of the train's horn that wakes you from a perfect sleep. Fear is that train running on the track for the next 20 minute break in your last hour of sleep. Fear isn't the sound of that phone ringing, it's just the constant knowing that it will eventually ring. Fear continues.
Mine has. I carry it. Long before I got this baby in my belly I had this horror in my heart. But like a bougainvillaea my veins have wrapped around it, coursing with my blood, beating through my heart, keeping me alive to watch my father slowly die. Or heal. That's the fear. That someone else I love will have to subscribe to my same wait. That he'll move to the back of the line I've been in for 1 year and 5 months.
Nothing changes, and that's not soothing. You callous, you harden, you close and open again, you go through all your albums, staining your favorite songs with your toughest nights. You blister, you pop, and before you know it, before you care to admit ... you heal, and you love, and you continue. A match for what once scared you.
I know this doesn't make sense. I know the song you're playing on repeat will always remind you of this. I know that what I never thought could hurt me more than it had, multiplies infinitely when it becomes your pain. And I can watch. I can aide. But I can't feel it for you. So I give you something else. We give you something else. And instead of another drone in this line, my body feels like a fountain, this baby feels like a force field. A constant reminder that at one point we went on, and we will go on again.