Migraine

Only a sliver of light slices into the bedroom from the hall, but I have shielded myself against even that, with the bedsheets pulled over my face. Underneath them the air is hot and still and noiseless.

Only the faintest sounds reach me. They are hardly more than the sound of my own blood in my ears. Behind my dark eyelids I am underwater.

My husband's laughter bubbles up, breaks my surface, clear but distant. Then his voice, joyful and adoring, entreating the little black dog we both love to find a toy he is hiding for her. I hear her playful whines and the jingle of her collar. In my mind I see her prancing and my husband's arms reaching for her.

I don't wish, not even for a second, to stand up, walk into the other room, smile, speak or touch them in that bright, bright world that is no longer my world. I lie still and love them - skills, I realize, I will one day be grateful to have practiced.