I dream of my mother.  Of talking to her one more time.  I dream of her voice, which, thanks to modern technology, I have record of.

I dream of her, but it’s not her.  I confront her for being dead.  She knows she is in the dreams.  It’s scary, and frightening, and intense.

I dream of my mother, of my mother now, 10 months after she’s died.  I dream of her talking to me, trying to tell me it’s okay.

I dream of her now, of others convincing me it’s okay that she’s still there, and me, screaming, “but she’s DEAD!”

I wake up crying.

These are not good dreams.


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