I once had a dream.
Before I was dating the man I am now married to. The dream seemed to be of a warning, but a warning I was unsure of. I dreamed, this man, was on his back. His daughter (his daughter that I had not met yet) was staring down at him. The day, wet. Scattered brown and red leaves on the ground. Gray. I knew one thing, it was Fall. There was a long driveway behind them, a wide berth of concrete in front of them. Trees, open meadows of grass. It was not the city. I interpreted the dream to mean, the man was not ready to date. He seemed overwhelmed, or some tragedy had come to him. I waited to date him. He had asked me on a date prior, I had told him to wait. When I was thinking I might be ready (a year later) to date. I had this dream, and then put him off longer. He was very patient, which was one of the reasons two years later, I decided to pursue him. That is another story.
The day I visited his home, I saw the area that was in my dream. The beginning of a long driveway. And I was not terrified. I was amazed. As in any dream that I have, amazed how accurate they can be. I still did not know what it meant. Did it mean he was overwhelmed? had he died? Was something going to happen to his daughter? Perhaps it was a tragedy that was going to happen to me. Perhaps I was going to die. I never once thought, it was a tragedy in the way it was going to happen to me, by one of my children dying. I was not in the dream. Neither were they. But the day Caleb passed, it was exactly that kind of day. It was Fall, not yet Winter. Wet and of course, late leaves were still hanging around.
Fall is a season that I love. The colors, the cool air touched by a fading sun. It has a beauty that Summer does not hold for me. It grips gently on my heart like a knitted sweater. Or a blanket on your lap while you watch your favorite show, or while reading a book. A cup of coffee, cocoa, or tea sitting ready at your side. A fire perhaps in the hearth, a candle scented Pine or Cinnamon. It is the beginnings of Holidays to come.
This year. It brings me sadness of an upcoming Anniversary of my sons death. An invisible hand at my back, pushing me toward a trauma I do not want to experience. Or remember. Or to feel. A sense of, I can save him this time. I will be in his room, at that hour. I will be there. He will not be alone. Only to remember that I cannot do so. It is a hand pressed into a bleeding wound. But, I cannot avoid the push of time. It is coming.
And the dream. It tried to say, Fall will not be so beautiful. Be ready. But how can one ever be ready for such a thing?
Like a gentle green leaf on a tree, touched by a cold hand, weakening in a fading sun. I am falling. Crumbling. Tossed by the wind. I accept you Winter to come, but will remember there is a Spring.