As a point of pride in my third grade class, I pronounced that I had never needed a dream journal; the images poured themselves fresh each morning, delicate complements to my white bread rolls and pressed juice. These days, the daughter that I am, I dream of actual moments, sometimes waking in the sort of dapper daze that melds dream and reality. Despite their melancholy, I need these dreams to remind me that memory lies right behind, that this gauzy gaze of mourning cannot negate our own mornings, our many years.
And so, soggy with sadness, but still with strength, with the strides that I took beside him, I am thankful for this small inner gift, for the nights when I can remember his voice, when his sprinkled beard is fit and familiar. When his gaze looks back at me. In rest from the rest of the time, when the hurt curls and calls out, when even small moments of happiness feel awkward and imbalanced; when I feel I have forgotten.
