small details

Her death haunts me. More accurately, her life haunts me. She finds her way in to my dreams, displaced in her surroundings. She knows she shouldn’t be there, and yet, her presence defies logic.

In my dreams, small details come back to me. The smell of her perfume, the hair spray she used, the scar on her arm. Those little gems that are hidden away in my subconscious; not readily available to my waking mind.

Last night, she sat next to me at a table with all of our family at her own funeral. I cried hard, knowing I had to let her go. She just stared at me, not saying much. Her sister and parents sat at the end of the table, Ben sat to my right, she at my left. I heard her sister and father talking – uncertain whether to comfort me and wipe away my tears. They ultimately decided that this was something I had to go through on my own and let me be.

She was there, but not fully connected to us. Her makeup was caked on, perhaps reminiscent of the makeup I saw when she lay in her casket. I noticed the details – things my mind had long forgotten. When I spoke to Ben about her, we referred to her in the third person, as if she were a mannequin. I felt her scar, her hand, her arm. Everything felt so real. My dream felt so real that I was certain I was awake, and yet, in it, we talked about how I could only remember these types of details in my dream.

I walked outside the building and stare at the cemetery where she was buried. I slump down against the rough beige plaster. I see the headstones some distance away, and know that she is gone. The dream morphs from here, turning familiar surroundings in to new ones and embarking on a new story line.

I woke up sad. Sad for the things that happened in the dream, sad that my time with her was over, yet again, sad that it wasn’t real. The small moments of time I get to spend with her in my dreams are enough to keep her present in my life, even though it’s been 11 years since her death. Birthdays and holidays are hard – those were the times I could always count on seeing her at family events. My recent birthday probably put her at the front of my mind.

The fact that she was only 30 reminds me of my mortality. It frightens me that we can be gone so quickly. It reminds me of how fragile we are, and that, despite what our plans may be, life does not continue in this form indefinitely. The fact that she was a mom hits even closer to home now. Knowing how hard she must have fought to hold on for her son’s sake. Her child never having the chance to really know his mom. I know C would do fine without me, but the thought of leaving her before she is grown is crushing.

Perhaps her visits in my dreams are some form of communication from another plane of existence… or perhaps it’s just my brain trying to wrap itself around the enigma of it all.

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Mom to "C", wife to Ben. I'm a part-time blogger, cook, organizer, seamstress, house cleaner, taxi, nurse (the mom kind), accountant... I could go on, but really... it's all in the blog. Read away!

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