The Gift
I'm sitting here watching over her; I can almost pretend that she's just asleep. That we're back in our dormroom and she's been hit in the head by some nasty demon or the other.
It used to be my job to watch her when Giles thought she might have a concussion. To wake her up every hour and shine a light in her eyes to make sure her pupil's retracted normally.
I can almost pretend that she's asleep; only this time if I try to wake her up she won't groan and complain and then laughing give in to my resolve face. She'll never again say, "do you have to Will?" or "Please just let me sleep."
She looks so beautiful and happy lying there. But, this stillness isn't right. Even when she would be knocked unconscious and be so still for minutes or even for an hour that my heart would ache-she was never this quiet-this devoid of...life.
I guess that's the joke, isn't it. She looks devoid of life because she is...she's dead. My best friend, my confidant, my secret love, what was the poem,
'Come to me in my dreams....'
Why didn't I tell her? Why couldn't I find the words? Maybe because it was so aching clear that she was as straight as a crossbow bolt? Okay, so that's not the metaphor most people would use; but it's what Buffy would have said.
I can almost pretend she's asleep; yet she will never wake. I will never again have the question of 'maybe' in my life. All my possible dreams are now over. The potential of would or could be...will never be known.
All I will ever have is 'come to me in my dreams.'