kathy, i’m lost

A few nights ago, I was restless.

Not antsy. Restless. I was in bed. It was dark. And quiet. For many hours in a row. I couldn’t rest.

I had voices in my head. Rather, I had a single voice in my head. It was saying the same words over and over. For now, the words don’t matter.

What matters is that I was, at once, alone and not. My bride was next to me. In bed. But also not.

‎”Kathy, I’m lost,” I said, though I knew she was sleeping.

Simon and Garfunkle’s “America” is a brilliant song. I can’t listen to it without wanting to feel something. Lately I’m actually not that great at feeling, so this song is like a gift.

In high school, my friends would debate (pre-Google) whether he told Kathy he was lost “though” he knew she was sleeping or “for” he knew she was sleeping.

I actually appreciate the debate. I get that there’s an important distinction.

If he tells her “because” he knows she won’t hear it, he’s afraid. If he tells her “though” he knows, he’s hopeful.

A few nights ago, I told my wife I was lost. I told her even though she was sleeping. I was hoping she’d hear me. She didn’t. And she did.

She picked her head up, looked around a bit and said, “hi”. Then she put her head down again and went back to sleep.

I stayed awake. Restless.
But not quite lost.

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