i received a phone call. my sister had died. i was devestated, as were many others. her ex husband had been the one to call. many of us sat around a table, not-eating, mourning. someone told me they saw her - the shape of her - standing at my elbow throughout the dinner. she was right there by me. someone else said she was reading what i had been writing on my computer. i was crying. i said i wished she was sitting at the table with me, for real. i thought that if she could be there, if she could see what i was doing, then i could write her a letter. but l her that demand that she come back. i could tell her that i miss her, that everybody misses her. i walked through an unfamiliar (to Real Me) house to find my car keys. i need to go home. i am going to write a letter. i want pretty stationery and a nice pen. so many detours on the way. i stop to refit my clarinet (i don't have one). i walk across campus and run into an old mail man who had asked me to a dance, and who insists he has a paper for me to sign - some legal acknowledgement that i am who i am, and that i should have signed before he ever delivered mail to me years ago. all i want is to write my letter, but i'm nice to this guy. i start to cry when he goes to get the form, b/c i'm overwhelmed with grief and sadness about my sister being dead. he returns and i say, "my sister died yesterday" and he says, "i know there is nothing i can say." he knocks my computer off a ledge, and it's broken again. the same way it used to be, with the screen all separated, and me wondering what holds in the lighted part. he says something about computers, and i tell him that he sounds like my partner. he asks why all the good ones are taken, and says he bets that my partner is taller than he, the mailman, is. i have him stand up, say no - they're about the same height, if the mailman isn't taller. i say they even have the same first name. i do not point out that his chest and shoulders look mishapen, as if he's wearing a brace, and that he's ugly, and tries too hard, and instead i say, "it must just be chance - he got here first."

then as i start to wake up, and the dream mixes with consciousness, i wonder ... do i expect her to write back? she can't write back, b/c she can't hold a pen. she is dead. then i wonder - what do i want from her? do i want to know what death is like? and then - but does she know? is she only able to visit, to linger, to read letters, for a short time? and then she will go to another phase, of which she knows nothing? then i wonder, if she could stay, and i could see her ghost, would it look like her body? rotting? full of maggots? then i think of her 5 year old son. will her ex husband keep him? will i ask to raise him? i know they won't let me. will they let me see him? visit? by the time that happens, will he remember me, and my daughters? should i go now? leave school and go to CA to make sure her family has a presence in his life during this time?

then i wake up, and i am glad she is not dead.

posted by Zuska @ 8:41 AM

1 Comments:

At Monday, December 26, 2005 10:39:00 AM, Anonymous said…

That is a hideous dream. I'm glad she's not dead! But you still feel those emotions for real when you're dreaming... horrible.

Merry Christmas, by the way.