In the dream you were still alive. We were at some strange art and music fair and you were playing an impossible dream violin that used a long, flowing curtain instead of a bow. I cannot describe how it worked. Everyone was watching you, amazed, and I kept trying to come over and talk to you but you would always move on to some other room through the crowded, labyrinthine dream venue and I could never catch up with you. Then, as happens in dreams, we were at home and you were sitting on the foot of the bed looking down at the carpet and I was standing in the doorway to the bathroom facing you. I felt anxious and guilty because we’d had a funeral and everyone had been so sad and here you were, still alive. I was about to say, “We had a funeral for you. What if people find out you’re still alive?” but then a realization washed over me and I said, “You died, didn’t you. You died.” And you wouldn’t look at me. Then I woke up with the fading feeling that you were there.
Life is good, but not perfect. I’ve been playing the guitar quite a bit. I’m horrible at it, but I expect that to improve, if slowly, as long as I don’t stop. I might stop. It’s a thing I do. I’m not quite on top of shopping and cooking, but we’re getting by. I need to go back to the gym. The housekeeper has been great, though she was on vacation this week. I have been spending a little more money than is prudent, but not dangerously so. Work is very busy. Robyn is off in Colorado doing charity work for the week. River is working a lot and taking summer. Rayn is spending time with friends, especially Lauren, whose house caught fire last week. All her cats died, as did her bird, but the Labradoodle made it through unharmed. They won’t be able to move back in for months. Rayn and Lauren will be heading off to camp in a couple of weeks. They always enjoy that. Life is good, but not perfect.
If I could control my dreams I would take you out to dinner and talk to you all evening. There would be no cancer and no medication, so we’d be sharing a bottle of wine like we used to, before you got sick. You would look me in the eye and smile as we spoke, laugh even. Later, at home, I’d pick you up like I used to before you had so much pain all the time and I would carry you into the bedroom. I cannot control these dreams, however. They tease me with you from a distance and then leave me bewildered and hollow. I don’t know why.
