not To Be morbid and Creepifying Or anything

I went to sleep last night at 8:30 p.m. I was reading and my eyes refused to stay open, to focus, and so I condescended to their demands and let them close.
I forced myself awake at 10:45 p.m. to stop myself from dreaming. It was an uncomfortable dream. Extremely so. And we're going to leave it at that.

I couldn't get back to sleep after that. It gets harder and harder to sleep alone as time goes on. I closed my eyes and let scenarios play themselves out in my mind. I replayed them, changed them, wondered at them.

Two men in uniforms coming to my apartment door and telling me that he is MIA, a POW, being tortured, that he died in the line of action. First, my jaw drops and I stare past them in disbelief. Replay: I sob; I fall to the floor and wail; I pound the ground until my fists are bruised and swollen. Again: I am at my parent's house, they are with me, and I crumple to the floor, curl into the fetal position and moan in anguish. No one can comfort me. No one tries.

I opened my eyes to find real tears on my pillow. I recognized that my subconscious was telling me that I miss him.
Feel free to tell me something I don't know. Tell me something I have power to change.
Hours went by in this manner. It was 4:30 a.m. when sleep overtook my mind and dragged me down to its depths.

My husband is in the National Air Guard. He hasn't received orders to go to Basic Training, yet. But it's only a matter of time. I know it's coming.
Part of me looks forward to it: this holds the promise of a career and opportunities that could not be open to us in any other way.
Another part of me recognizes that, however improbable, the on-going war that our country insists on waging could claim his life. That's years down the road...but still...it's there. Highly unlikely. Vastly improbable. Not even worth the worry, really.

Sunday afternoons I see her sitting a few pews ahead of us. She has to wrestle two rambunctious young children into their seats and implore them to speak in low reverent voices. Every Sunday she does it alone. Her husband died a few months ago. She's maybe five years older than I am.
I admire her. Pity her. Fear her, a little bit. I see the future possibility of myself where she sits. In truth, I'm only a thread's breadth from being that same young widow.

Truly, death hovers a thread's breadth away from all of us at any given moment.

I'm not sure how I would move forward from something like that.

I see the futility in worrying. I can't change anything. For all I know, I'm destined to go first by getting hit in traffic, making him the young widower. It matters not. I'm not going to lose sleep over the infinite sad possibilities of my life. It was just late at night, and I'm alone, and that's where my mind wandered to.

Still. It's always a little scary when the facade drops and Death reveals just how near it's always lingering.

brownie points to anyone who recognizes the phrase "morbid and creepifying" from the post title. I'll give you some context:
"See, morbid and creepifying I got no problem with. 'Long as she does it quiet like."