Sunday, December 30, 2012

On the Virtues of Early Blogging

Dear John,
 
I tried to write to you earlier but was prevented by the fauna. When Hunter was on my shoulder, Jethro was climbing across my lap. When Jethro went to his end of the couch, Hunter jumped on the keyboard and tried to play with the pretty things on the screen. So it's 10:00, Im in bed, and we're having a bit of a lull here.
 
They are adjusting well. Hunter is eating, drinking, peeing, and pooping. Jethro is more fascinated than terrified today, so they're both getting their exercise running around the house. They actually touched noses today. And Jethro licked Hunter all over, to which Hunter responded with enthusiastic purring. They're on their way towards friendship.
 
Last night I fell asleep while they were still bounding around the house. I woke up an hour later, felt Jethro at my chest, and identified the heat on the top of my head as Hunter. Later I got up to go to the bathroom. When I came back to bed, Hunter snuggled up to my chest and Jethro lay down across my knees. It appears that we all will sleep together. It's a good thing that nobody snores.
 
And just why am I still breathing?
Can somebody remind me?
I don't like to write to you this late at night. When I write in the evening, sitting on the couch, I'm happier-sounding. When I miss you most is at bedtime, and it's hard to write to you in bed like this without feeling like I'm whining at you and feeling sorry for myself. I remember all the years of our marriage, when I'd be gone at night, you wouldn't go to bed - you'd sleep on the couch. When I went to visit Mama and Daddy, or took a few days to go and play with your sister, or was in the hospital, you didn't even try to sleep in the bed. I used to worry about you, but you did okay. You said you couldn't face the bed alone. Well, unless I'm going to turn into Gibbs, I have to go to bed alone for the rest of my life. And it isn't really getting any easier, not that I can tell.
 
We always got ready for bed together. We even brushed our teeth together, since the first morning of our honeymoon. If we'd had a bathroom with two sinks, we wouldn't have used them. That little thing we did twice a day came to mean so much over the years. We came down the hall together, brushed our teeth, changed clothes, always together. Then you sat in bed and read while I washed my face and got my contacts out. And I came and curled up next to you with my head on your left shoulder and your arms around me, and we said our evening prayers together. And sometimes we talked for another hour or so.
 
So going to bed is the hardest thing that I do. And I try to write to you before bedtime, so that I'm not too depresing for you to have to read, and I say something other than that I miss you and can't wait to be with you. You know that anyway. I love you so much, Jethro misses you, and - dare I say it? - you'd be enjoying Hunter. I'd be happy to throw the animals out of the bed to make room for you!
 
Saving the bed for you,
Joan.

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