Friday, February 22, 2008

dream of my mother

I dreamt about my mother last night. Only my second about her since she died on July 11, 2007. I crave these dreams -- as if they were some kind of real contact (which I don't think I believe).

I was standing near a wall with mirrors of all different sizes and shapes. My profile was to the mirrors, and I was talking to someone (don't recall to whom) about nothing important. I turned to face a mirror, a medium-sized square one. I saw my face full on, and it slowly turned into my mother's face, bit by bit. Cheekbones, eyes and all. I looked away quickly. I looked into a different mirror and my face was my own. I didn't think I looked like my mother, I thought. Then I stepped back to face the first mirror, and my face again turned into my mother's.

I turned my back to the mirror. and found myself looking out the familiar French doors of my childhood New York City apartment. It was night. And there was my mother, with huge angel's wings, flying outside the doors (five floors up). She waved and smiled. We didn't talk.

In the other dream, which I had months ago now, she also didn't talk. She was sitting on a hospital bed in one of her blue and white, Asian-style cotton weave robes. She looked like herself, alert, full of face, hair present in her short, layered bob haircut. (Not what she must have looked like at the end -- gaunt, without hair, lying down -- I did not see her at the end; I was in the States with a newborn; she was in Sydney, Australia.) She just smiled at me. I wanted her to talk.

I suppose I don't know what she would say -- and these are my dreams. That is what I crave -- some words from her, even if they are of my subconsciousness's creation.

You know, those French doors and the wrought iron balcony outside figured in another visitation from the dead dream. My cat Clark, who died when I was 17, came out of what appeared to be a tunnel with an opening in the middle of the wrought iron. He did talk, but I cannot recall what he said. I used to believe he looked out for me. I wish I could believe my mother has joined him.

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