I dreamt that Woody was alive last night. We stood in the
kitchen, laughing and talking as if nothing had happened. I was relaxed and
content. He told stupid jokes and I rolled my eyes. Woody was home! “Do you
want to sit on the deck and have a glass of wine with me?” he queried.
I smiled ready to respond, when something snapped. “No, we
can’t! If we do, you’ll die tomorrow.” I rushed toward him. I wanted to hold
him tight and feel his heart beating steadily in his chest while his warm breath
caress my cheek. But when I reached my arms out to embrace him, he vanished.
I woke up suddenly, shaking with tears in my eyes. It was
just a dream. Woody is never coming home. I will never snuggle up to him on a
cold night and laugh as he jumps out of his skin as I touch him with my icy
fingers. I will never smell him again as I pull one of his shirts from the
laundry basket. I will never gaze into those caramel brown eyes with flecks of
green as all my resistance rushes out the door. No, I must accept the fact that
he is gone
.
And yet occasionally in my dreams he is still here and very
much alive. It is as if my mind were playing some cruel joke on me. I want to
scream and cry. Why can’t my subconscious accept the fact that Woody is dead?
It is in constant denial, even after a year and four months. I wonder when
acceptance will penetrate every part of my being, even the dark recesses of my
brain.
But for now, I live in the reality of the daylight and know
that even in this God will carry me through.
