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.