Dreaming of David

Last Thursday I dreamt of David. I don’t recall ever dreaming of him in the 3 ½ years since he died. In my dream, I was coming down the stairs. Our 1895 house has a charming feature: near the bottom of the stairwell is a landing in front of three windows. There the stairway splits into “Jack and Jill” stairs. Turn right and the Jill stairs take you to the kitchen, turn left and you go into the front room, our library. As I stood on the landing, facing the library, I saw a little boy, about six years old, in a pressed burgundy sports coat, sitting on the bottom step. I knew it was David. I stood silent, afraid that if I moved he would disappear. I kept looking at his back and wondering if he was about to disappear. From the kitchen, Jim called out: two of our adult children had entered the house. I wanted go see who had arrived: I wondered if it was the adult David, but I didn’t want to lose young David. I was frozen in place.

When I awoke, I wanted to cry out in pain. I hadn't experienced that intensity of pain for a long time: I'd forgotten what it  felt like. Pain like that doesn't disappear: it's just somewhere below the surface.