Do you remember how I used to be afraid of the dark?
Eventually, I grew out of it like most kids do.
That is, until you died, when that fear reared its ugly head in a new and even more terrifying way.
It becomes eerily quiet as I begin to go about my nightly routine without the sound of a ball game on, or the shuffle of your feet, or the transition from television to noise maker.
Wait, did I just hear your voice talking to me as it drifts down the hall…?
The blackness of your bedroom is strange to me, as I’m so used to there being a lamp on or the faint blue glow of the television screen across the walls. There’s a bright nightlight on in there now. If I stir late in the night, it confuses me for only a moment into thinking that you’re still up for whatever reason.
Sometimes I go into your bedroom, and if I focus hard enough, I can pick up the scent of your shaving cream. I laugh when I look into the bathroom and see it all over your face as you slowly emerge behind all the white foam as your preferred clean-shaven self.
Wait, you aren’t really there, but what’s that smell…?
I shake my head and go downstairs to the kitchen. Typically, you’d be coming down at this point of the night, too, hungry for a late-night snack (and secretly, so am I). It’s odd to see the same snacks you enjoyed sitting on top of the refrigerator now, unopened. I’m suddenly no longer hungry.
Most nights, as I head back upstairs, I swear that I see a glimpse of your face in the darkness outside through one of the many windows, which paralyzes me in fear and sadness for several minutes at a time.
Wait, was it just my imagination, or…?
I climb into my bed and pull the covers over me, trying to shut out the foreignness of silence. But as I turn out the lights, I realize that you aren’t here, and that me sensing you is probably just a sign that I’m going crazy, and that the only real thing is the darkness of night as it consumes me.
The hardest time of the day is at night when everything’s uncertain and unsettling.
That’s when grief attacks me to the point that I sometimes worry I might not want to wake up when the morning comes.
