we are standing in the middle of the driveway, right near the trash bins no less, and you are passionately expressing your mind. "We are one person, we do this together," you say. "You cannot push me to the side." And a week later, warm tears are streaming down my face in the car as i attempt to eat breakfast on the way to the pumpkin patch, and again, very firmly, you say, "Quit trying to do this without me. You do actually need me. And I need to stay connected to you. I cannot be shoved to the sidelines."

ARGH. He's right. That's Stephen. When my heart feels like the mushiest naked organ in the world, it is not exactly second nature to invite you to hold it. in fact, because you grieve so differently than me, i prefer to have this solo motion. i don't know how to be one when half of me responds so foreignly. Won't you please sob? Or allow your mind to go to the places I am going? Why aren't you more worried? How the hell can i invite you in to this oh so tea cup fragile space when your chance of screwing up are so high and I CANNOT bear more pain.

what i don't even consider, still, after 14 years together, is that even without mirroring my grieving, you are aware. you see me. you love me, you want to hold the mushy heart. But trusting you with it scares me to death, do you know this depth of pain, are you at all familiar? I don't need handling, i need understanding and partnership and i don't have as much negotiation time to play our pieces, how then can we be one?

i see you in the driveway, i hear you in the car. what your saying is you won't be pushed aside. that you do hurt too. and that you want to go this together and won't giving up fighting for that. Because actually you are for me. Dear God, I beg let me believe this. Let me give up the solo run. I may actually need him.