Dreams
I dream of the dead. Granted, my dreams are prolific. Narcolepsy fills every sleeping moment with dreams. Mom's passing brought dreams of her nearly nightly. Dreams where she was dead but resurrected, living on borrowed time, sick but not sick. I would wake wet faced and wrung out. Heavy. Guilty. Sad. These dreams of her are easier of late. Loving, understanding, full of knowing and action. Still, I wake sad. A little lighter, a touch less guilty, but still mourning. Last night, my dreams were fuller. Rounder. Abundant with dead. The best long, soulful cuddles with dogs I've loved and lost. Batting practice with a father-in-law. Conversation around a fire pit with a grandfather. Waking, I felt held. Loved. Full. Nostalgic. As I start this journey, I am struck by synchronicity and contrast. A living dream, a kernel of aspiration that I've had for many years is blossoming. I am filled simultaneously with fear and excitement. Both adventuro