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A Recurring Solo Dream

Written by: Lea Lane 11/10/2010 8:55:37 AM
I am in a good place now, but something about this bittersweet time of year brings back a recurring dream. It was less than a week after Halloween, 2001, when my late husband lost his battle against cancer. And since that time I have dreamed a variation of the following. I often dream in color, but this one is usually the shade of a Saharan sandstorm. That aspect alone is scary. It begins with me working on a kind of tag sale along a busy road, with a line of tables cluttered with god-knows-what, I can’t remember. Many things. Suddenly someone says that my late husband had been seen nearby. First I insist "no, that can’t be." But many witnesses say they talked with him and assure me he seems in fine spirits. Joy jolts through me, and I want to believe this. The circumstances aren’t clear in the dream, but I’m told he has returned from distant parts. To see him I have to travel through a half-rural, half-city environment, and I struggle against crowds as far as the horizon; they move in a pattern like fields of golden wheat in a wind. The people are dressed in an exaggerated way, like extras in a movie, set in some far-ago time. Goods are all around the streets. Lots and lots of stuff. In the distance I can see folks milling around a man, and from afar that the man indeed looks like the husband I had lost. I keep fighting the flow of people to get to him. The chance to hold him again is an incredible force. I fight for many minutes through the crowds. I hear his voice before I see him. He is mesmerizing those around him, who gaze at him from every angle like you would a Michelangelo statue. I finally get to him and he looks my way. But he is different. Younger in a way, but without expression, without his grin of recognition. His affect is without sweetness; he is a replica, without essence. I notice that his eyes are smaller, and not blue. After acknowledging me he talks to others, as if I mean no more to him than they do. And I plead in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine, “I’m, your wife, We loved each other. Why are you turning away?” And he smiles and then goes back to the others and says he has to do some things, and disappears into the crowds. Again I fight to find him, into the haze ahead. I come to an endless row of wooden cabins like in a prison barracks or a camp. I push open the doors and look quickly through each of them. I have no idea how long this takes in real time, but it seems forever. All the cabins look lived in, but all the people are outside. Finally, I find my husband in a cabin. He looks at me without emotion. And I say banal things like “Why did you go? What happened? We love each other. You’re my husband. We’re together again.” Then, “What’s wrong?” And he says “I just had to be away,” and nothing else. And those strange eyes, almost piggish, remain glazed over. Then he says, “A kiss will tell us if we should be together.” And I rush to kiss him, and after he is silent, so for a moment in this dream I feel another jolt of hope that we might be reunited. But he says “I’ll be your friend,” and I feel now that he has left me because he had wanted to, and I can never be with him although he is standing there. He has chosen to come back, but not to me. The despair makes me groan, and pulls me down. My unexpected chance to be with him again has ended. But why did he betray me? Was our whole marriage a sham? I watch him walk back into the crowd. And I lose sight of him, but I keep searching in the gold light, asking and searching. I can’t let him go, although he doesn’t want me. Maybe I will find him. Maybe he will change his mind. __ Even now, years later, the hurt of that taunting dream lingers. And I have to assure myself that yes, my late husband really loved me. And I find strange, awful relief knowing that he is really gone and at peace. Lea Lane/ sololady.com
 




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