Another Night of Talking to the Dead

Two nights ago I had a dream that the four of us were on some kind of vacation. An outing. We were all the ages we are now. We were walking around an outside museum of some kind, then I decided for everyone that we should sit down at these round, outdoor tables. We weren't, any of us, happy. There was a gloom over the whole afternoon. But still, I pressed on. It was me that wanted us to be here, to be pretending to be happy. I needed this and was working very hard at it. Anyway, so I decided to get us all some drinks. Mom was cold so I thought I'd make people some nice, hot drinks. Instead of asking the employees of the museum to help me I jumped behind the "kitchen area" - the kind that magically appear in dreams when you need them to - and started whipping something up. As my father was complaining about having to be there at all, about having to do this, I deliberately made him something I knew he would hate. I made a super-sweet hot chocolate with CHUNKS of raw chocolate and other devastatingly sweet things floating around in it. For Michael I made something less sweet because I knew he liked it. And for Mom I made tea the way she likes it. While I was cooking one of the employees came up to me and showed me a picture of my dad in uniform. An Army uniform. Aged somewhat as he is today, but standing in the picture in an Army uniform. I remarked that I'd never seen that picture and asked if I could have it, as it was of my father. The woman said no. She then started saying things that didn't make sense and that I didn't want to hear. She asked me why I was torturing my mother. I didn't know what she meant. She told me that it was clear to all that my mother was dead and that I shouldn't hang on so hard, but instead should let her go. I was angry and so, so, so sad. I turned and looked at my family. THAT'S why Michael was looking away pretending none of this was going on, I realized. THAT'S why dad has his smug look of non-caring as if to convey that he was thinking of great and profound things and not, in fact, being inconvenienced by this most un-seemly event. THAT'S why Mom looked so tired and in pain. She was a ghost. And I had dragged her off of the path she was meant to lead and kept her here.

I woke up sad and confused, and knowing I should have known better.

In other news, I'm going with M's little sister this morning to buy bras. Something I've only done once without Mom. It's somehow fitting that her replacement should be a caring, loving, beautiful, and incredible 19-year-old who adores me. Hallelujah. Thanks, Sarah.

Much love,
alexia

UPDATE:
Went and got the bras and ohmygod... Now we know why specialty stores are specialty stores (can you say: "Victoria's Secret"?), THEY SPECIALIZE IN THINGS! I threw out my old ones and have four new ones that feel like they were specificaly tailored to my body. Technology is amazing.