Last Friday afternoon, I fell asleep. It is uncharacteristic for me to do that, unless something kept me up all night…like a sick dog or kid. For some reason, I dozed off. I fell into a dream, which is no uncommon for me. My imagination has always been on level godzilla. I don’t often dream of anything remarkable, but they always seem so real. I also don’t often dream of my mom. I have had a few dreams of her, we are always interacting in them. It’s so nice to hear her voice and there comes a moment that I wake up and come back to the present awake world with something I can use. A lesson in patience, usually. Or compassion if I have been struggling with getting along with someone. I don’t have the least idea about whether mom is reaching me in my sleep or if that is even possible. It is probably my brain knitting together a problem with a solution and packaging it so I will happily listen. Whatever it is, if mom is in that dream, I’m listening.
Friday, I dreamt that I went into a brick faced building and was sitting in a windowless room. It seemed to be my room. In walked a crowd of people. They all seemed familiar but nondescript. And mom and dad. Dad ignored me and Mom hugged me. I sobbed into her shoulder. I leaned back and looked her over. Her hair was soft and billowy, curly with bangs. She was vibrant and healthy. “I miss you so much!” “It’s no problem,” she said. “Here, put the date in your book. Do it now.” She left me thumbing through a calendar book with red edges. The binding allowed me to flip pages until I reached the date she indicated. November 20th.
The last time I dreamt of mom , it was difficult. She was angry with me. I had only experienced her disappointment towards me directly a few times. To say she was reserved is grossly misunderstating her. She was private, enclosed. I hadn’t awaken to her footsteps until recently. Life through a war changes people. When children do it, they experience that awakening right then. The rest of life is an effort to find meaning and soak up graces. That is exactly what mom did with her time on earth. I’m sure of it.
The first time I dreamt of mom was soon after her passing. Her body had changed so quickly, from robust and sturdy to frail and brittle. I had a hard time understanding what I was seeing. Who was getting the best of the situation? Was it us, who weren’t dying and leaving our skin and bones behind? Was it Mom, who was making an exit from a terrible situation that clearly wasn’t going to get better? I could see what was happening, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I knew Mom was going to miss her grandchildren. In many ways, I was becoming more difficult to deal with than ever before. But Mom was sad to not see these kids grow up, come trick or treating and watch football on Sundays. She was sad to miss the birthdays. I know it. I dreamt, after her death and before her burial. She arrived in her and Dad’s car. It roared into the graveled driveway. I ran to the door with a dish towel in hand. “Mom! Dad! What are you doing here?” Mom was in the back seat. She rolled the window down, waved and announced, “Happy New Year!” “Can’t you stay?” I begged. That one sided smirk, shrug and nod that said no. “I gotta go.”
Midway through this day on November 20th. So far, nothing on par with Godzilla.