This moment matters

Brian was in my dream last night. 

I was sitting in the living room, the TV was on. 
I had just gotten up to refresh my drink when the  front door opened. 
There he stood, his left hand on the knob, a hat on his head, and sunglasses on. 
(just like so many other times when I've watched him come through that door)
There was very bright light behind him, all around him,
and he asked "Am I too late?"


What a joy it was to see him, but how it hurt to see him again, knowing he's no longer here.

The past 12 days have passed in a blur. 
I feel as if I'm sleepwalking through the days.
I walked into the garage to switch the laundry from washer to dryer, but saw a case of water sitting on top of the garbage can, so I grabbed that and put it away.  It was an hour or so later before I realized that I hadn't switched out the laundry yet. 

And none of it seems to matter.  The days, the activities are all done on automatic pilot. 
I know it gets better with time, but time is an ambiguous term.  It could mean minutes. Or days. Months, even years.   I try not to think of it in that way, just the now.

This moment matters.

So when I'm feeling the loss, when I'm tired or feel strung out, I take a minute to rest, recharge, regroup before I attempt to keep putting one foot in front of the other.