Windward
Had a dream about my wife and slept right through a thunderstorm last night. In fact, I thought the thunderstorm was part of the dream. Nothing but snippets left this morning. If there was a story or a tale to tell, I’d tell it. It was just a dream. She was there, as if nothing had ever happened, and she was totally lucid, asking questions, talking, as if she’d simply been gone on a long weekend with her girlfriends.
The storm was a storm. There was thunder and I could hear the rain falling, but it felt dreamlike. I didn’t really know it had rained until I rose from my bed and saw the wet driveway, and when I looked out the window, I could see flashes of lightning in the distance. Plus, the rain gauge has two inches of water in it. That seems a serious storm. I feel as though I missed a party, however, by sleeping through the storm. That somehow, I was negligent in my duties. Oh, well. It rained. That’s good.
At the moment, it is still dark outside. And I wonder what it would be like if this were some other century, and I was sitting here alone and there was no way to reach out and talk to someone or go anywhere further than my horse could carry me. What would that feel like? I guess I’d learn how to carry my baggage or die trying. Or maybe I’d just embrace the slow passage of time and savor whatever was there to savor, and let the healing take whatever course it was going to take.
John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale