Sleep - My Wayward Friend

A long time ago, when I was young, Elizabeth dealt me a blow to my heart which I thought would kill me. I vaguely remember running to my car and driving away, hoping that speed would make it all not be true, but knowing the pain was real and it wasn't going to go away.

I didn't know where I was going but I found myself stopped at Stephen's house. I knocked and his mother called for me to come in. I hurried to Stephen's room so she wouldn't see I was crying.

Stephen was listening to Pink Floyd. He was always listening to Pink Floyd. He saw my face and knew where I had been. He wasn't surprised. He had tried to tell me for a long time.

He said nothing. He just indicated the bunk bed and I climbed up top. He switched off Pink Floyd and put on Moody Blues. Threshold of a Dream.

I slept and woke and slept again several times. Every time I woke I looked and saw him at his desk, waiting for me to recover. There was nothing else he could do. When I finally sat up he smiled and asked if I felt better. I said no. Then he told me I was a 'scab picker'. "You are not one to just let things be. You have to keep checking things, reopening the wounds and delaying your healing."

Then he took me to Keno's Pizza and I ate spaghetti. Salve to a wounded heart.

Stephen was right about me. I am a scab picker. It is impossible for me to leave the past behind. Wherever I go I bring it with me, and when the memories rise the same feelings rise with them. The wounds are never healed.

I am becoming so old, and some days the memories get awful heavy. I should have been asleep three hours ago. I may not be asleep for several hours hence. I sure could use that bunk bed now.