"Waking up from a dream of violence is much the same as waking up from a dream of love. You must go on living your life."  ~Wendell Berry, Jaybor Crow                        

 

He was in my dream again.

I am relieved. Now I can ask him all of the things that I don’t know what to do with. I can release the burden of having to make all the decisions and take all the turns that his leaving has forced me to do.

 

He is broken when I see him, as he most often is when he comes back to me. A shell of his former self, thin and raspy replaces the formidable strength and stature that he once held. Blind in one after the surgery and so physically impaired on his left side that he has to walk with a cane (or as he typically prefers, alone, holding on to furniture like the early walking stages of a toddler).

It’s an upgrade from the wheelchair that was once his only form of transport.

I always loved his desire for independence, even at his most hurt self.

 

He calls me over with this gaze,

that familiar look that has depth and knowing

the look that I know is only for me.

I walk up to him.

 

I return the look and he smiles.

Yes, whatever is on the outside, it is still him.

It’s the same smile that melts me every time.

It was always him,

regardless of the bruised and beaten outside.

He’s come back for a moment.

I feel relief.

He always did know how to rescue me.

 

Somehow, we are traveling alone on our way to a destination. I don’t really know where.

We are in an inn of some kind, a lovely but simple, spacious room where we stay the night on our way to a dinner party.

I wake up in the morning and turn to see him, still on his side of the bed.

He is still broken, bruised and battered, the scar from his surgery taking up real estate on over half of his beautiful head.

Will the hair ever grow back there, I wonder?

 

I touch his scar and he wakes, confused it seems, but then he gives me that smile.

I have this desire to be with him,

to take hold, for one last time, of all of the losing and giving

of all of the taking and receiving,

the releasing and accepting

the deep knowing and being known that comes with our marriage bed.

But there are pills everywhere between us on the bed, everywhere.

His daily protocol of pill-swallow-pill-swallow-pill-swallow that is a constant for him, morning, day, and night.

I know he hates them.

By reaching for him, I’ve scattered the pills. He doesn’t say anything, but gives me a gaze.

But this time, there is sadness in it.

Almost as if his eyes tell me that he’s sorry.

His gaze is still on me, when instead of reaching for me, as I know he once would

he reaches for his pills.

 

I feel this crushing ache for the brokenness of the world in which he and I live

at the disintegration of his beautiful body, once so strong and capable.

His broad shoulders and arms, his stature and height always make me feel like he can conquer anything in this world.

But those are gone.

I see the bones of his shoulder as he reaches for another pill, the skin that once wrapped around fortified muscle, hanging loose from his arm.

The clock on the nightstand behind him tells me that I’ve spent too much time here thinking.

Fairly typical of me.

We need to get going.

Lots to travel today.

 

We are at the party with the decor and balloons and tables.

People are milling everywhere and it’s noisy.

I can see that it is slightly annoying him, the noise, and I smile to myself.

Only I can see it, because I know him.

How I know him.

I walk him over to a table where I struggle to get him seated. He is so tall and he hurts everywhere.

Aching from past seizures, common, little tragedies of our everyday.

He can’t really move his left side, so I have to bend down and help him swing his leg under the table.

 

I can feel people whispering and staring at him.

Their eyes all over.

He is so disfigured to them, weak and frail as he is, with his head swollen and bubbled on one side,

the swelling spilling over his surgery scar.

I fight the urge to knock them all down, like bowling pins, in defense.

Instead I give them all a look of indifference.

 

I ask him if he wants me to get him a plate, as the food is being served buffet-style.

He nods and although he is in pain, he looks at me and gives me a gaze, which then is followed by the smile.

My anger at the people dissipates. Mercy, he always had a way of undoing that in me.

How many times in our days together, regardless of our arguments, did he not win me over with that gaze and smile?

 

I feel an urgency though, as I know that he is leaving soon.

Maybe I don’t have time to get him a plate of food.

I’ve got to ask him, question him, update him on the state of the world.

I have to hurry before he goes.

 

What do you want me to do with this particular retirement account?

I need the password to the files that hold our son’s records. I can’t find it anywhere, where is it?

Do you want me to take some of your ashes back up to the side of our mountain in Colorado?

I know the answer to this though. You once told me that you didn’t care.

They were just ashes. By that time, you would be in glory with Him, you said.

What do I do with the poems you wrote and the writings you had…can I share them? Or are they just for me?

Oh, what of the investment property that we were considering before you left? Do you want me to move forward with that?

If you do, how?

Can you tell me how you want the accounting settled for the month? I’m trying. I know you were always trying to get me to learn.

Oh, I also want to tell you that I’ve grown a lot—I trust the Lord more. I have to.

No choice there.

I’ve had to be a big girl and open up my own IRA.

Your son turned 10 while you were gone. You’ll love who he is.

Oh, and you’ve got to see this hilarious video I found on YouTube about contemporary worship music.

We were always laughing about the repetitive chorus, weren’t we?

He’s more like you every day, you know?

Sometimes that makes me crazy, he has some of your habits and quirks.

Most every day, it makes me marvel at the glory of the Lord.

Hmmm, fathers and sons.

 

You have to go now.

I know.

All of my questions are unanswered.

Will you come back, I ask.

You just look at me. 

But this time, there is no smile. I wake up too soon.

Was the smile coming? Did I miss it? Did I not see it?

I’ll have to add that to the list of questions to ask you

if you come again.