Friday, October 30, 2009

The Stuff of Dreams

I don't dream often.  I mean, I'm sure that I dream, I just don't remember them.  They say everyone dreams after all.  But I really, really don't remember them much.

For a long time, my memories of Henry have been relegated to those which I conjured on purpose or by simple association.  I'll see mandarin oranges and remember how much he loved them.  A UPS truck would go by and I recall how, for each one we saw, he'd point out and call them a 'present truck'.  Sometimes I would try to draw the lines of his face in my mind's eye, remembering how his hair felt or how his weight felt good on my lap while watching TV.

I woke up crying this morning.  I was dreaming he was there and somehow - in my dream - realized it wasn't real.  My dream-self began crying and woke my sleeping-self into the same state.  This was only the second time I've dreamed of Henry.  Only twice in the eight months since he's been gone.  Just two times.  It's painfully rare - and completely and utterly jarring.

The very first time was only a few weeks ago.  I woke up peacefully in the middle of the night, but then was unable to sleep and very suddenly couldn't contain myself.  The middle of the night was so surreal, dark and confusing and what I had dreamt felt so tangible.  I was possessed with grief.  Usually there is a voice in my head that can reason with my emotional self to calm down.  It takes time, but it's rational.  This was uncontrollable, a physical force shaking me from inside, punching me, not letting me go.    I'm normally I'd rather break down privately, this time I was grateful Tara was around.

Mercifully, last night's dream was not as powerful.  Merciful, yes, but regrettable too.  One of the hardest parts of Henry's absence is the lack of new memories.  There are no more of the cute moments that surprise you with cleverness, no more quiet times between us, no more hugs or I-love-you's.  Dreams give me something new about Henry.  I remember the dreams like I remember him being here.  I want them now.  But like everything when it comes to Henry, it's not simple.  The wonderful is wrapped with the sorrowful.  There are no clean lines, only a mix of happy and sad.


Granya said...

It's good to hear from you Bryan - it's good to cry with you.

I had lunch with a "grandfriend" of Henry's yesterday and we shared and we cried.

One young person left such a huge footprint in our hearts and souls - I don't want to ever forget him - let the tears continue to flow as we remember.

Anonymous said...

Bryan, Tara and girls - we continue to think of you....and send hugs your way.
Linda and Val

Anonymous said...

I, too, am crying with you. My heart and prayers will always go out to you and your family.