I heard my mother howling this morning, before I opened my eyes and remembered where I was. I thought she moaned two or three times and then let out a wrenching scream from her gut. I thought to myself, the grief took hold again, and she must need a release. But, as my eyes shot open, I was shocked to discover I was at home, and my mother was in another state, lagging a time zone behind, probably still asleep herself. The moans and scream must have been from the TV my husband was watching. But I think it was her – I think I heard her cries in my ears; in my head.
I believe this because I’ve experienced so many strange things during my sleeping hours that I now just follow my instinct when it comes to figuring them out. It’s slippery – we experience a dream that seems so real, sometimes beautiful, sometimes tragic, and then we lose the images and feelings connected to them quickly upon waking. Sometimes we want to remember, other times we want to forget. I always want to remember, even remember the one dream that changed my life, and the lives of many others.
December 17th 2005 was a Saturday morning, so when I briefly stirred at 8am, I went back to sleep, and that’s when I had the dream. Kurt and I were sitting in our parent’s kitchen. It’s the home we grew up in, and I saw the old linoleum flooring beneath our feet. He was wearing a white shirt, standing next to me. “I have died,” he said, so calm and matter of fact. No! I went to him and hugged him so close. He put his arms around me and said it again. How? What happened? No real answers came. But I felt his hand rubbing my back as we embraced. I felt it’s warmth on my skin first and then over my purple shirt. I was sobbing as I released him carefully, and asked why again. He faded away, and I woke up with tears streaming down my face. God, that felt real. I had dreamed that my brother Kurt was dead. I had felt his hand, and had cried real tears…
I walked downstairs to my husband and told him about it. I shook it off. We went about our day, and then later, pulling out a friend’s driveway, I got the call. Kurt has died. He died early this morning. All I could say was I already know. I already know.
So in my dreams, and in those barely conscious waking moments, when I hear or see something, I believe it. These sounds and pictures give me the window into another place; they shine light on a tragic and also beautiful truth. I believe Kurt chose to tell me he was alright, that I may have been his last stop on this Earth. I will forever follow my spirit’s instinct; I will forever believe in my dreams.
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