five minute friday: fingers of fear
I crack my right eyeball. He’s up on his left elbow, leaning over me, staring…
…at the clock, I guess, on the nightstand next to me. Then he’s fiddling with his phone. Did it go off? Or not? After I complained about the radio blasting strange music at weird hours and having to wake up and stretch so far across that I nearly fall out of bed, and then having to shake him awake, he took to setting his phone alarm. On vibrate. He lays it on the bed right between his Tempur-Neck and my soft feather. He
hears feels it. I don’t. Go figure.
Finally he gets out of bed, bumps the footboard in the dark, opens and closes a drawer. I count as he thumps downstairs. It’s 5:15. It’s cold. I burrow under the covers and doze.
Until he comes back up, fed and showered, turns on the light, gets dressed, slaps on some Canoe, bends over to kiss me goodbye, turns off the light, thumps back downstairs. I hear him open the closet door and close it. The garage door rattles up, then down. I hear tires crunch gravel, and the sound of the motor fade as he drives away.
I reach for my phone to check the weather, possible school closings.
I don’t think he turned the heat up in here.
A sudden wave of fear overwhelms me. I catch my breath. My heart starts to race. I envision a tractor trailer slam into the little white Saturn on I-96. The car spins and tumbles down an embankment.
How will I find out? Did it happen quickly? Did he feel anything? What will I do? How will I act? Will I be strong? Hysterical? Will I faint? What will I write for an obituary? What songs will we sing at the funeral? Do I know where all the paperwork is, who to call? (No.) Should I stay in this bedroom? Sell the bed? Sell the house? What should I keep? Give away? How will I survive widowhood? Will I just curl up with his bathrobe? Should I get up and take a shower and be ready for the call?
I’m not kidding. These thoughts are racing through my head. I’m freaking myself out, practically convince myself he’s not coming home.
Stop it! Just stop it!
Pry the fingers of fear off your throat, away from your heart, out of your mind.
You’re fretting about something over which you have no control.
You’re wasting this moment with worry.
You’re frittering it away with fear over something with about as much substance as the fog that hangs outside.
Someone compared worry to a fog that keeps us from seeing things as they really are–that a deep fog covering several blocks is actually made up of less than a glass of water.
I open both eyes wide.
The fog lifts. The dark dissipates. Faith wins.
But I do think my husband and I need to talk.
Still fearless (mostly),
Joining Lisa-Jo and the Five Minute Friday sisters today as we fight the word prompt fear.
Confession: I think I slid into seven-minute Friday.
Adding to Bonnie’s Jam on “trust”