I remember it well: It was in early November eight years ago, shortly before I was supposed to leave for Ohio to spend Thanksgiving with you and your family. I decided not to go, knowing, perhaps, what was coming. I remember the phone call, but not all of what was said. I remember howling, sinking to the floor, and sobbing. Not so very long ago, I found a box full of letters and postcards, all in your very neat hand; I re-read them and went through half a box of tissues in the process. On the whole, though, I do not spare you more than the infrequent passing thought.
Why, then, have I dreamed about you twice in the past week and a half? My time is occupied, my mind is occupied, and I really don't need these little reminders of what, as they say, once was.
Dream Number 1:
Date: Last week, but I don't remember specifically when.
In my dream you appeared at a place where I also was, and there were numbers of people around. I suspect it was where I was working, though I'm not completely certain. Much of the dialogue, if there was any, is forgotten, except that you, on bended knee, declared, "I've never again met anyone like you." I was speechless. End of dream.
When I woke up, I was angry. Angry that you invaded my space, even in the unreality that is a dream, after eight years. If this were reality, I would have said, "Nor will you. Nature and nurture made me what I am, and there will never again be another like me." But this wasn't reality and I didn't have the satisfaction.
Dream Number 2:
Date: Last night, which is why I'm blogging about it right this very minute.
In my dream you did not appear, but your parents and brother did. Your mother was a voice on the phone, telling me that your brother was about to get married. I informed her that I was unable to stay long on the phone because I was leaving to attend a friend's sister's baby shower. I put the phone down and went out to the garden to look for something to wear (don't ask... it was a dream), and the phone followed me, floating through the air, while your mother continued her commentary. I didn't ask about you, but once again I resented the intrusion. Even in a dream, I resented the intrusion.
Why, after eight years? Why, after eight years of not thinking about you, not caring about where your life went, and not being at all interested in what became of you, am I suddenly dreaming about you? Not that you'll ever read this and offer an explanation or an apology for invading my mental space.