Page 20 of Letting Go at 40

“Just like that, Mealworm,” Amelia continues, and my huff turns into a strangled giggle.

“Another one, Mealworm.” Amelia pauses. “What a romantic. A book with that in it would sell off the shelf.” Amelia spreads her hands like a banner. She’s in marketing. “Imagine the branding. Mason eats Mealworm.”

I snort.

Amelia chokes. “What was that sound?”

Within seconds, we dissolve into a fit of laughter while I try to rid my mind of images of Mason and my sister.

And suppress the endless tears.

+ + +

The days blur together as the end of July shifts to August. While our friends’ group was just present for Ben’s funeral, we will regather for the two-week vacation Ben demanded of his friends. He wanted them to reunite and reconnect annually in the first weeks of August.

Amelia has returned to Chicago. Mason remains, lingering in my periphery.

The night before Zack and his twin boys are set to arrive, I wake with a start as something brushes my hair over my ear.

I blink several times, attempting to clear my head and focus my bearings. I’d been dreaming. While I’d like to think the man in my dreams was Ben, I’m not certain he was. His stature wasn’t right, and his hair color was off.

Staring into a pair of blue eyes, the wrong color blue, I realize where I am. I’m on the couch in the sitting area off the kitchen.

Mason is staring at me.

“Hey,” he says in a voice quiet while rough.

Shifting my head, I glance over Mason’s shoulder at the window above the other couch. Night has fallen.

“What time is it?”

“Time for bed, beautiful,” Mason huskily whispers. “You fell asleep on the couch again.”

For months, I’ve been falling asleep on the couch, not interested in climbing alone into my bed where I’ll fight memories and struggle with dreams.

Shaking my head, I snuggle down into the cushions. “I’m comfortable here,” I lie, tucking my hands under the throw pillow where my head rests.

“Anna,” Mason softly admonishes, lifting his fingers and brushing through my hair again. My eyes close at the tenderness. My sister held me often while she was here. My children offer hugs, but their resilience has been surprising. Ben didn’t want them to remember him in his final condition. He struggled with the desire to see them and the fear that he’d haunt them.

We are all grieving differently.

In many ways, I’ve grieved Ben long before he left this earth.

I shouldn’t let Mason touch me, but the soft strokes soothe. With my eyes closed, I’m cognizant Mason is comforting me, but I don’t care.

“Come on, Anna. Bed.” His voice is quiet yet firm.

“I’m tired,” I whimper. “So tired.”

“You need rest, beautiful.”

Beautiful. I don’t feel beautiful. I feel worn down. The tears are exhausting. My head constantly aches. An itch of uncertainty exists beneath my skin.

“I don’t want to go to bed.” Alone whispers through my head.

“You aren’t alone. I’m here for you,” Mason says, his voice drifting, like I’m dreaming the words instead of hearing them.

I’m here for you.