Dear Bryan,
On Thursday night I dreamed of you for the second time since you died. In the first dream, months and months ago, you were telling me to talk to our father. Something you would had said when you were living too. I was telling you that you didn't know all the horrible shit he had done since you died. You didn't know you were dead and I was sorry to bring it up. Still, you told me again to talk to our father. We were sitting on a bus having this conversation--a school bus.
I don't put much stock in dreams, except as self expression. So, I don't think you were really telling me to talk to our father. I think maybe this time you would have shrugged your shoulders and let me be as stubborn as the man who is responsible for half our genetics (the half responsible for our stubbornness too, might I add. So, it's his own damn fault.) But I knew I was dealing with my own guilt. Should I? Shouldn't I? What was right? What was wrong? What would you think of everything that blew up in our faces while we were grieving your death?
In this second dream, our mom, my friends Amanda and Karen, and I had found some way to visit you in the place your consciousness went when you died. My sleeping brain wasn't too clear on where exactly that was. (blame the bulk of this on having seen Inception a few weeks ago) When we first got there, to you, I told you that you were dead and what had happened since you died. Mom got mad and somehow we took that knowledge away from you. I know we had a limited amount of time to visit with you and Mom wanted us to all spend it celebrating our memories of you and being happy. But towards the end, pieces of your death were cropping up--bits of twisted metal buried in the driveway of the houses we used to live in (the one of the corner of 302 and Blackhawk).
We were upstairs in the attic in front of the double windows. We were going to paint your best memories on the slanted ceiling to remind you of us when we were gone. The paints were named things about you. We were missing some and Amanda and Karen rushed out to find them for us. Mom was crying because our time was almost done and I'd slipped up and mentioned how you were dead.
"Oh, yeah." you said. You'd remembered and your nose started to bleed, you look depressed, you took up a needle and shot it into your arm. Mom was, by this time, hysterical.
I took you by your shoulders and looked at mom and back to you and said, "Would you both listen to me? Listen to me for once. I'm always right about things like this."
You both waited.
"Bryan, you might be dead, but you are in heaven. This is heaven. It's nirvana."
Your eyes lit up. You looked around as if seeing everything new.
"It's like a dream that never ends here. You can make it anything you want. Time will pass quickly and one day, we'll be here with you always. You can do anything here."
"I can fly?" you asked, excited.
"I guess so."
You jumped up, thrilled and jumped out the open window. You didn't fly but you weren't hurt.
"Maybe it takes practice?" I shouted down to you. "I mean, you've never actually flown before."
But you weren't really listening. You were jumping higher and higher, closer and closer to flying. You were blissfully, perfectly happy.
I woke up then, smiling.
Love,
Sissy
On Thursday night I dreamed of you for the second time since you died. In the first dream, months and months ago, you were telling me to talk to our father. Something you would had said when you were living too. I was telling you that you didn't know all the horrible shit he had done since you died. You didn't know you were dead and I was sorry to bring it up. Still, you told me again to talk to our father. We were sitting on a bus having this conversation--a school bus.
I don't put much stock in dreams, except as self expression. So, I don't think you were really telling me to talk to our father. I think maybe this time you would have shrugged your shoulders and let me be as stubborn as the man who is responsible for half our genetics (the half responsible for our stubbornness too, might I add. So, it's his own damn fault.) But I knew I was dealing with my own guilt. Should I? Shouldn't I? What was right? What was wrong? What would you think of everything that blew up in our faces while we were grieving your death?
In this second dream, our mom, my friends Amanda and Karen, and I had found some way to visit you in the place your consciousness went when you died. My sleeping brain wasn't too clear on where exactly that was. (blame the bulk of this on having seen Inception a few weeks ago) When we first got there, to you, I told you that you were dead and what had happened since you died. Mom got mad and somehow we took that knowledge away from you. I know we had a limited amount of time to visit with you and Mom wanted us to all spend it celebrating our memories of you and being happy. But towards the end, pieces of your death were cropping up--bits of twisted metal buried in the driveway of the houses we used to live in (the one of the corner of 302 and Blackhawk).
We were upstairs in the attic in front of the double windows. We were going to paint your best memories on the slanted ceiling to remind you of us when we were gone. The paints were named things about you. We were missing some and Amanda and Karen rushed out to find them for us. Mom was crying because our time was almost done and I'd slipped up and mentioned how you were dead.
"Oh, yeah." you said. You'd remembered and your nose started to bleed, you look depressed, you took up a needle and shot it into your arm. Mom was, by this time, hysterical.
I took you by your shoulders and looked at mom and back to you and said, "Would you both listen to me? Listen to me for once. I'm always right about things like this."
You both waited.
"Bryan, you might be dead, but you are in heaven. This is heaven. It's nirvana."
Your eyes lit up. You looked around as if seeing everything new.
"It's like a dream that never ends here. You can make it anything you want. Time will pass quickly and one day, we'll be here with you always. You can do anything here."
"I can fly?" you asked, excited.
"I guess so."
You jumped up, thrilled and jumped out the open window. You didn't fly but you weren't hurt.
"Maybe it takes practice?" I shouted down to you. "I mean, you've never actually flown before."
But you weren't really listening. You were jumping higher and higher, closer and closer to flying. You were blissfully, perfectly happy.
I woke up then, smiling.
Love,
Sissy
Leave a comment