I can read, but I can’t watch movies; I can watch TV series though I can’t watch season finales; I can rewatch movies I know by heart; I can watch cooking shows and documentaries.
I can take the subway but I can’t take the bus (much less the train); I relax when I take a taxi. I will never ride a bicycle again.
I can work, and I can work well. I can get on a stage and do something slightly resembling acting, but I can’t do it well or even try to. I can’t do yoga without crying (I can’t cope with the amount of crying that comes after the yoga).
I can eat sweet and savory things but not spicy things. I can drink coffee but very little tea. I tolerate pasta best of all.
I can, apparently, write.
I can’t sleep through the night — I can’t avoid the nightmares or the images and sounds that attack me the moment everything turns silent; some days I can’t wake up until somehow I can.
I can see the tiny slivers of luck in the bunch of tragedy that we were dealt; I can be thankful that he died instantly and was never even aware of the accident; I can be thankful that there were never any choices to be made concerning treatment or life support; I can be thankful that he lived and then he died and didn’t spend any time in a limbo or in-between.
I can’t even begin to fathom how we, the ones who are left living, will ever be whole again without him.
