I talk to him sometimes.
Well, I talk to him all the time.
I lay in bed, and I talk to him. I tell him about my day and things I had done and seen.
I tell him just how much I miss him, his voice, his laugh, his smell. I tell him how I miss how he used to wrap his big, strong arms around me. I tell him how I miss having to stand on my tiptoes, just to place a kiss full on his lips. I tell him how much I love him more than life, how I miss laying my head on his chest and listening to his heart beat, strong and steady - or fast after we made love.
I tell him how much I wish he was here.
I tell him how much I need him right now.
I tell him how I wish our child would have had a chance to know him.
I tell him how I wish I had had a chance to tell him we were having a baby.
I tell him how I wish that he hadn't had to go that night, hadn't had to go and play that gig in that sketchy bar across town just to help pay the rent.
I tell him how much I need him. And how much I miss him and everything reminds me of him. I let him know how much my heart aches because I would never get to kiss his lips again. Never get to play with the hair on the back of his neck as I stared into his eyes. Never get to just simply tell him I love you.
Our conversations are pretty lengthy some nights, depending on the day, the hour and how I'm feeling. Morning sickness kicks my ass most of the time and I'm exhausted. But I need to talk to him. I need to remember what it's like to feel safe. I only feel safe when I'm talking to him. It reminds me so much of when we were together, back in the very beginning when I talked so much and he didn't have a chance to get a word in at all. It reminds me of when he would pretend to listen to me. I can even imagine the glazed over look his eyes would get when I would go off on one of my tirades about God knows what.
You see, when Finn died...we were just starting to get back on track. He'd finished college with a degree in education and had just moved to New York to be with me. We'd moved out of the apartment I had shared with Kurt and Santana and found ourselves a small two bedroom apartment we could manage for the most part on our own. He'd gotten a steady gig at a seedy bar downtown performing acoustic sets and was paid half decently for it, all the while he scoured every school district within a large radius of our shoebox apartment looking for a teaching job of any sort. He had wanted so badly to succeed, to make me proud and little did he know he already had.
That was another thing I always told him during our talks. I told him how proud he made me. Every time I looked at his college degree hanging on the wall in the living room I got a tingle, knowing he had finally succeeded at doing something he alone wanted to do, though knowing him he would debate that for hours on end. I knew what he would say, that he did it for me, did it for our future. So I tell him he would have been one hell of a teacher, the finest New York had ever seen. And that I was so proud of him, cause effectively - I was and still am. Probably always would be. He was Finn.
He had accomplished so much in his short life. I'd like to think that I, rather our relationship, was one of his greatest accomplishments, second only to the life growing inside me. I'm so sure Finn would have loved this baby more than he loved grilled cheese and breathing. He would have been the best father in the world and I know this because he was the best fiancée, best lover and best friend that I had ever and will ever have. He would have loved to get down on the floor and play, teach our child about music and how to play the drums. He would've taught them to just love and enjoy life. He would have been our child's best friend.
During our conversations, I also make him a lot of promises. I promise him that I was going to do everything in my power to stay healthy. Not that I wasn't before, but I know if he was here with me, that would be one of his main concerns. He would make sure I ate all three meals (cause I often skipped breakfast in favour of a simple coffee while running out the door for an audition), take my vitamins, relax and even more so - enjoy myself. I promise him that I would take care of our baby, make sure he or she was safe and secure and above all else felt loved. The little thing had only been inside me for 13 weeks, and I already feel like it has been around forever, always a part of me. I promise that I would teach our child about their father. Let he or she (I hate saying, it) know how great he was, what kind of man he had been and how deeply he loved me and how much I knew he would have loved them as well.
I also promise him that I'll keep singing. I don't promise to stay on Broadway because at this juncture I'm not sure any production was going to hire a woman who was so deep in grief and very much pregnant. I promise to keep singing because I know just how much he loved it, he told me every day how much he loved listening to me sing around the apartment, even when it was totally off key or positively perfect. He always told me how much he loved my voice. He always told me how much he loved me.
I promise him that I will never forget him. Pretty cliché and I know it will be hard to forget him, especially with our child growing inside of me. But I still promise it. Because I know I need to say it, whether or not he can hear me and I strongly want to believe that he can hear me. I need him to hear me. Because I still need him so incredibly much, more now than ever.