Paul and I have been having a series "pillow talks" where we chitchat about all sorts of things before we tumble into sleep. This is something couples do, I hear. It has never been a thing for us. We have never been "pillow chatters." We've always been of the persuasion that holds bedtime as a sacred time for REST, not for discussing one's fondness for retro ice cream parlors. But people bend. Now, we are what I'd call casual pillow talkers. It's adorable.
Anyway, the other night as we were precariously leaning over the fuzzy brink of dreamland, I pressed Paul for info on his "Ingrid Journal." Paul's "Ingrid Journal" is something he came up with several months ago. The idea is that he writes letter to our daughter in a notebook so that she can read them when she's older, after he dies (dark, sorry).
But this is what he told me: "I just write about the things we've done that day. So that she can have memories of me."
And that, my friends, is the sound of a heart breaking into a trillion tiny pieces.
It's too much. It's too much for me to consider my dear husband contemplating a near future where his 3 or 4 year-old daughter will not remember him. It's too much to think about death being that close to us. It's too much to know that Paul plans for that version of our future.
I suppose we both do. It may not happen, we pray it won't. But I'd by lying if I said we never think about his death or talk about it. We do. We have to. It's very much a possibility, and it will very much change our lives. My head isn't clear enough to elaborate on the subject. It's too big right now. It's too much. As Ingrid says when I ask a favor of her: "Probably later, OK?"
OK.
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