And again and again and again and

The first time it happened, I thought it was a dream. Same with the second. The third felt too real---I thought, he must be a ghost. By the fourth I figured I must be crazy, hallucinating this perfect conjuring of what might have been. But the fifth time proved that others could see him and I felt him under my touch and he must be real. This was real. This is real.

Each morning I wake up next to Sam. The day plays out slowly, softly. Sometimes there are things to be done, sometimes there aren't. But I'm never particularly stressed. I never feel fear or anxiety as he walks out the door, never the dread that I'll never see him again. Because I do---again and again and again and again, every night and every morning. Just three months ago at his funeral that dreadful feeling was an anchor on my chest. Now, it's just gone. Because he's here.

It's a new morning---or the same morning? While a few things differ each day, I don't get the distinct feeling that time is moving forward. I don't feel stuck exactly, but motionless, floating. I stare at him where he lies still sleeping. I run my fingers over the spot where his surgery scar used to be. There's just a tuft of unruly curls there now, his bedhead just as wild as it's always been. I make my way down to his lips, grazing them gently. Sam lets out a hefty snore, and I can't stop the laugh that tumbles out of me. Both the snore and laugh interrupt his slumber, his eyes creeping open.

As soon as he sees me, he smiles. That sleepy, dopey, teethy smile that I've missed so much. He looked so vacant in his casket, so empty. I hope he was. I hope his soul left his body and came here to lay in this bed and wait for me. I hope he didn't wake until I got here. Stayed in a peaceful, dreamless sleep until my voice and my touch pulled him into this perfect moment, this perfect day that we get to live again and again and again.

While Sam and I honeymooned, our friends and family helped finish up the move into our new house, so we could settle right in when we returned. New was a stretch; it was new to us, anyway. The original hardwood floors creaked and a rogue staple where the carpet joined it would wound us if we forgot to step over it. The wind whistled through the old windows and the kitchen was always drafty. But it was perfect, because it was ours. We dragged ourselves in from our flight home in the wee hours of the morning, and when we woke the next day, it was past noon. I woke in this bed for the first time in our new house with my perfect husband, and nothing ever felt more right. I felt like the last puzzle piece, slid snugly into my place. I belong here. I'm complete.

Waking here now, Sam kissing me tenderly on any expanse of skin he can reach, that feeling happens again and again and again. Feelings tend to fade, lose their intensity, lose their surprise. But not this one. Sam says good morning, I tell him it really is, then we part to start our day.

Today is one of the one's where we don't leave to go to work or a party or dinner. We linger around the house in each other's company. The sun sails across the sky and before I know it, we prepare for sleep again. If any of this feels unusual or out of place for Sam, he doesn't show it. He wakes up and goes to sleep with me every day and every night in this little pocket of our perfection. Nothing ever goes wrong, we never have bills we can't pay, we never argue over what to eat, we never cry tears of sadness, we make love without tiring, Sam doesn't wake up in the middle of night throwing up, I don't look at him as if it might be the last time I ever will.

There's no more doctor's appointments. Sam's body is muscular and strong and he carries me from room to room. My eyes sparkle and the skin beneath them isn't sallow or drooping. We don't go over life insurance policies or wills. We laugh and don't stop when Sam gets a headache because it never comes. Sam doesn't get upset when I look at him like I'll be lost without him because I never do.

Maybe I'm dead, too. Maybe this is heaven. I think that might be all right with me. A joyful purgatory where we never leave each other. Where I get the love of my life back again and again and again and