When I tell my therapist I'm writing eulogies in my sleep, trying to piece together the perfect slideshow of pictures. Ones that show all the best parts, the parts everyone loves and admires. The things I love and admire. She tells me they call that "Anticipatory grief".
I tell her, I'm praying to a God I've never really believed in but have always been too much of a coward to claim doesn't exist at all. Maybe I'm praying to someone else's God when I beg "angel numbers" to heal with unspoken pleas to the universe.
I tell her, I'm signing papers to make decisions I don't want to make, should that become necessary. I'm looking up environmentally friendly ways to bury someone because we always preferred the idea of returning to the Earth again.
I tell her, I'm horrified I'm thinking of any of this, terrified that dwelling will speed up some unseen clock I'm powerless to slow down. Like a final ******* from the universe, like one big cosmic karmic joke.
I tell her, I'm begging for a miracle, hoping if I'm attentive enough, if I am there enough, if I'm willing to sacrifice myself enough somehow I will be able to change things. Somehow I will be able to fix it.