I dreamed of my mother last night.
My sister and I pulled up to a pump at a gas station/restaurant, like the ones we stopped at when we made those epic journeys across the southeast in the 80s and 90s. The passenger side door of the car at the pump in front of us swings open. “We already have gas in the car, Joe. We don’t need anymore,” the woman says. She has light brown hair with glints of auburn. It’s almost to her shoulders, in spiral curls that are half perm, half natural. She’s slim, in seersucker shorts that show off amazing calves tucked into white Keds. She turns and smiles at me.
My heart stops. I run to her and try to hug her, but I can’t. My eyes start to burn and my lip quivers. “Don’t cry.,” she says in the voice I would recognize across time and space. “I know you love me.” She looks over my shoulder at Emily. “Be careful what you say. You’re the only one who can see me.” We walk, side by side, into the diner.
Then I woke up.
Some people say grief is like a series of tidal waves, crashing over you, then the waves soften, eventually becoming still. I have found grief is more like a lazy river, slowly eroding the ground beneath me until I suddenly plummet into a deep, dark pool that seems to have no light and no bottom. The pressure pushes me further down, a weight so unbearable I feel as if I’ll never breathe again.
Then I hear my mother’s voice and my head breaks above the surface and I can breathe.
My sister and I pulled up to a pump at a gas station/restaurant, like the ones we stopped at when we made those epic journeys across the southeast in the 80s and 90s. The passenger side door of the car at the pump in front of us swings open. “We already have gas in the car, Joe. We don’t need anymore,” the woman says. She has light brown hair with glints of auburn. It’s almost to her shoulders, in spiral curls that are half perm, half natural. She’s slim, in seersucker shorts that show off amazing calves tucked into white Keds. She turns and smiles at me.
My heart stops. I run to her and try to hug her, but I can’t. My eyes start to burn and my lip quivers. “Don’t cry.,” she says in the voice I would recognize across time and space. “I know you love me.” She looks over my shoulder at Emily. “Be careful what you say. You’re the only one who can see me.” We walk, side by side, into the diner.
Then I woke up.
Some people say grief is like a series of tidal waves, crashing over you, then the waves soften, eventually becoming still. I have found grief is more like a lazy river, slowly eroding the ground beneath me until I suddenly plummet into a deep, dark pool that seems to have no light and no bottom. The pressure pushes me further down, a weight so unbearable I feel as if I’ll never breathe again.
Then I hear my mother’s voice and my head breaks above the surface and I can breathe.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment