I had a conversation with my mother today. Nothing important. We chatted, we laughed we shared news about the family. And then she told me she had a nightmare last night. She’s spending the nights at my sister’s to feed the dog while they’re out of town and she doesn’t like spending the night in that big house. In her nightmare she was frightened, and then my father appeared in her dream. He said to her, somewhat annoyed with her, “Why didn’t you tell me you were scared?” And as she’s laughing at herself while telling me her dream, she said, “I was so happy to see him again.”
She didn’t mean in her dream. My father died twenty plus years ago. And his visit in her dream made her happy. Truly happy. It was in her voice. Oh, neither of us read anything into the dream or take it as a sign. It was just a lovely visit so she could see him again. I had a dream about him, my uncle and my grandmother, all deceased, last summer and I woke up with the same feeling. Not that it was sign, but it was just lovely to see them again.
I think that’s why romance (the literary genre, not the dinners, flowers, and candlelight) is so enduring. Love is the most powerful emotion. Love is the chemical that drives us. Love is the thing we search for and once we’ve found it, man, we depend on it to anchor us and buoy us and gladden us and strengthen us. At least it does for me.
And when that person who inspires us is gone, it doesn’t mean the love is. The love stays. That’s how strong it is. And I take comfort in that.
Books I’m reading now:
Whoops. Can’t tell you. I’m judging the RITA contest.