Content Warning: Death
I had a nightmare. It was about you. Naturally when I awoke I texted, because I wanted to hear from the real you. You responded right away, assuring me everything was good and fine. And it was. I went about my day.
A few weeks later I texted you like any other day, expecting the typing bubble to appear immediately, as it always did. It was June and I was on a train to join a protest in Chicago, but after a few hours, I grew anxious. How unlike you.
But years before I had trained my brain not to jump to the worst imaginable circumstance as I had when I was little. Mom didn’t answer my call? A picture of her sprawled out—dead—surfaces in my mind. I still see the image I had created.
So my mind didn’t go there. The next morning we sent the police to check on you. What if we had sent them sooner? But you had a do-not-resuscitate order. And you wouldn’t have wanted that. I remember being worried you’d be annoyed having police knock at your door. Oh, my daughter, the worrier.
But you never did text me back. I had your best friend make the call that morning so he heard from them first. My phone rang with his name. I pictured myself on the beach, my phone lighting up with a text from you instead.
“G! I am all good.”
“Sorry I worried you Geej! All is good, I’ve been working all day. How is your day?”
Or just a call, so I could see the picture of us I have as your contact pop up one more time. Both of us with bright smiles, wearing the same baby blue, the same fair and rosy complexion that came from our being redheads. My young, pigtailed head rested on your shoulder—safe.
But the picture never came. It never will. “Your dad passed away.”
I collapsed. I was right this time.
But I am so grateful you still visit me.
The first time I dreamt of you after you left me, you weren’t really there. I was waiting to hear from you. My sister and I were shopping, hoping you’d come watch us perform in a show. We shopped around waiting for a text I knew would never come. Like that day. I heard from the funeral home instead.
The next time you came by we were on a plane, nose pointed down and we were plummeting. Crashing. But neither of us seemed unsettled, you mentioned how we had never gone more than a day or so without talking. I didn’t have the heart to tell you it had been nearly 5 weeks. And so I produced a smile so as not to scare you.
Your best friend and I were at our old place, the one in Bellevue. Packing your things I suppose, as we had actually done with your apartment in Connecticut not long before. Where you had moved to be close to me. Suddenly you popped out from your bedroom, beaming in excitement to see me. It had been so long. I still swear I could feel the hug you gave me. It was so close to real.
I was in a class, studying hard. A small bedroom you now lived in was attached to the classroom. You were very confused as to where your things had gone. Just a few pieces of art remained. I’m sorry I had to pack it all.
You sat on the bench, there to watch me perform a dance of some sort. My boyfriend at the time was just about to leave and I wanted you two to meet. You never got to meet him. I loved him, but I never got to tell you.
I thought I saw you walking through the store. Minding your business as if seeing me wasn’t the first thing on your mind. I found the aisle you stood in, you ran toward me. Angry and I am not sure why. But as you got closer your expression shifted and you embraced me, lifting my feet off the ground.
I spent hours unpacking your things, your life’s treasures. Turns out you weren’t really gone after all, and I was sure you’d want them back in your home. So I put it back together for you. You’re still here.
At first you didn’t know you had died. But over time, and as you visit me less and less, it seems we both know. I hope it wasn’t scary. I hope it didn’t hurt. I really wish I believed in heaven, then maybe I could ask you.
By Georgia Spurrier.
