Dreams

Dreams are important to me. They always have been. Last night I dreamed about my mother who died in February 2010. “Honey”, as everyone called her, was ninety-five, a month short of ninety-six when she passed away. Last night, for the first time since she died, I dreamed about her. She came to my door that had a large window in it and pressed her nose against the glass. This happened twice. The second time, I opened the door and fell into her arms.

            “It smells like you,” I said.

            “It is me,” she answered.

            Her hair was dark brown, her face aglow, and she was smiling. She was wearing a navy blue dress with a wide, white collar. She was standing next to a lush, green bush, and in her hand she held a tiny, red flashlight. Had she been looking for me? Was she looking for him?

I suddenly was filled with so much emotion I thought I would choke. I could not speak.

“Have you seen him?” I asked in my mind, for my voice was stunned, silent. “I miss him so much.”

Before I could hear her answer, I woke up, strangling on a sob. This is the way I started this day.

My son Alex died of brain cancer on May 24, 2013. Every day since his passing has been new: new grief, new sadness, new dredging of memories, new ways to cope. Sometimes I just look at his photographs and that makes me feel better. I know grieving is a process; sadness is appropriate, and each day the pain of loss eases, if only by micrometers.

I’m just waiting for him to come to the window too. I know he had a little, red flashlight.