Lost Muse and A Eulogy Unwritten

I reached for the handle and pulled. The door resisted. I pulled harder until it finally popped open. I stepped one foot in, twisted the knob, and quickly jumped back out of the way. The water started to rain down onto the cold, gray tile. 

I stared in the mirror while at her sink, watching the memories fade in and out.

The late-night dance parties with our toothbrushes still hanging from our mouths. The nights she convinced me to use our eyebrows as a canvas for our child-like drawings. And the quiet moments getting ready for bed, side-by-side.

It was all over.

She was gone, and so were my tears. There was no water left to spill. The pain was quiet now. A lingering and festering pain that consumed what was left of my heart and spirit. 

I returned to the shower and let the water run over me, finding no solace in the warmth. 

Afterward, I dried off, put on some clothes, and sat down on my bed.

The room was barren compared to last week. The hospital bed and chairs were gone, and the bedside tables, once filled with medications and notebooks, were empty. The only thing that remained was the lit-up Pumpkin French bulldog that sat in the corner of the room. It was a reminder that Halloween would still come, whether Ariana was here or not. It was our nightlight now, illuminating the ghosts in the dark that haunted us every night we tried to sleep. 

What was once a room filled with sorrow and laughter is now only filled with pain. The house was quiet. The kids were gone. They had left to go apple picking. 

The stillness was haunting.
The void felt so profound. 

It unnerved me. 

I planned to sit down and finally tackle the Eulogy, but I opted to stare at the TV with my sister, pretending to watch, mimicking the behavior of someone who was paying attention to what was happening. 

It wasn't procrastination or the pain of her absence that prevented me from writing. It was my inability to find the words to describe who and what Ariana was to me and this world. How do you sum up someone's life, however short it was, in fifteen hundred words? What justice is that to their legacy and the love they poured into all they met? The challenge felt too enormous and overwhelming. 

I didn't want to let Ariana down. 

Again.

So today, I promised myself I would write. I would chip away at my insecurities, word by word, until I found the right words, sentences, and sentiment. 

I got up, sat at the table, opened my laptop, and wrote this entry instead, thinking I still had time. 

I was lying. 

The deadline to present everything that Ariana was fast approached, and all eyes would be on me. 

But what if my Muse had died with Ariana?

Scarier yet, what if Ariana WAS my Muse? 

Or has my mind gone numb to protect itself? 

It was all the questions I used to distract myself and keep me from writing. 

So, we'll find out Saturday if my Muse is alive and well when I get up to speak.