Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Last night

I dreamed that Jesse came back to visit. He stood at the foot of the bed, then sat down on it, smiling, looking like he did when he was 12, mischievously cherubic, his curly hair longer than he ever kept it again, and lightened by the sun. I told him I was glad he came to visit, and asked him if he was ok, and he said yes. We chatted a bit but I didn't even think to ask him if he had forgiven me, if he knew I had forgiven him, because I could see he was just happy to see me, had dropped in just to chat, and I knew by his obvious peacefulness that he wasn't angry any more. He couldn't have chosen a better year of his life to contrast with this happiness, he was so miserable at 12. I hardly saw him happy from that year until much later. It was good to hear Jesse's words, and not an echo of his father's hostility, coming from Jesse, even if it were only a dream. I think I'll choose to believe it wasn't.

1 comment:

  1. That's what I would choose too.

    Well, I have a deep fondness and respect for dreams. I think they come from some great, mysterious other place/time that I cannot understand. They are otherworldly.

    And so, it makes sense to me to believe that if someone has passed over the line I know as life here, that if they were to contact me it would be in a dream.

    The only time I'm really open to that kind of otherworldly communication.

    I have no control over dreams - what comes and what doesn't.

    Much like life.

    I'm glad to read of this dream you had.


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