I dreamed, Sunday morning, in those dosing moments waiting. Frank and I had planned on going to go out for breakfast, and he got to the bathroom first. I stayed in bed, warm and lazy with my kitty-boy attacking my feet, and dreamed.
In the dream, we were still anticipating breakfast, but Frank and I were outside by the fire-pit. He had a huge black eye, and wouldn’t tell me how he got it. I was so angry with him. The man is ever hurting himself in my absence, because he never knows when enough is enough. It’s like having a little kid who just wants to do and do and do and doesn’t quite know his limits.
And again, in this dreaming, Chris was there. Only I could see him. Silent. I’ve yet to get a word out of him in all the dreams I’ve had. At first, he was the exuberant Chris he’d been shortly before he died, smiling and showing me his leg made whole. He’s gotten less and less exuberant, now only nodding and showing me, with his eyes, the words that won’t work. He did it again, looking at me with those blue, blue eyes, and then his dad, shaking his head and smiling that almost-smile.
He was many people, my son. Goofy and talkative, silent and contemplative, sweet and somewhere in between. I think he was someone different, depending upon who he was with. I’ll never know all his facets. I don’t have to in order to love them all.
I saw a ghost-whisperer guy on TV who said the newly departed have to learn how to communicate all over again. Maybe that’s why he’s silent in my dreams. Or maybe words, between us, were never really necessary. I always knew what was going on in him. Always. Those weeks leading up to his death, I knew no matter what he said, something was wrong, very wrong. I knew, when he was happy and living on his own, there was something he was not saying. I wrestled with the over-protective mother desperate to bring him home, make the world go away. I told her she had to let him be, had to let him figure it out, had to let him grow up. Putting those fears into words felt too much like anticipating doom, so I didn’t. I encouraged him, reasoned with him when things weren’t working out the way he thought. I knew, and even told him, many of the things happening were self-fulfilling prophecy. I wanted it to be a string of bad luck. He did too.
I woke up angry with Frank for not telling me how he got a black eye. It couldn’t be helped. Reason and logic hold little sway in the morning hours when I’m still slightly groggy and haven’t had my breakfast. The Chris in my dream lingered. I swear I felt him there. His quiet presence. His gentle strength. The Chris I remember best and most often. Silence wasn’t always a bad thing, between us. He was one of the few people in the world I could simply be with and feel no compulsion to speak, to entertain. I miss that most of all, I think. Maybe he does too. Maybe that’s why, in dreams, he never speaks.
Modesty Is For Suckers 