Dream 1: She carries me.

Setup:
My mom (Muriel) and her Aunt Hettie grew up more as sisters than niece and aunt. Hettie unexpectedly passed away on March 17, 2000 from a heart attack and my mother on September 26, 2007 from Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC). This is a real dream that occurred the night after my mother passed away. I am not looking for ratings, just something I had to write down as it was beginning to fade from my mind.


The dream:
I'm in a yellow bedroom. It is more like a closet than a bedroom, but I love it. I feel at home, I am home. It is my old room, the one I grew up in, the room I had from age 2 until 21. It is more a best friend than a bedroom.

I am sitting on my white iron bed, busily doing homework or writing, it isn't clear. A friend of my daughter's enters the room without knocking. It is the paper thin girl who used to come over who looks anorexic to me. I think her name is Tara, but I am not sure. I demand to know what she is doing, why she is in my room, why she did not knock first. As she admires my jewelry, she talks, says a bunch of gibberish I cannot remember. I tell her that I need a glass of water. It appears in her hand and floats across the room to me. As it comes to rest in my hand, I ask Tara how she did that. Tara says she didn't, tells me that my mother did it. I set the glass down on the nightstand and ask her to do another trick. I am gently lifted off my bed by an invisible force. I float around the room as if someone is carrying me, but there is no one there. The floating is serene, habit forming, it makes me happy. I feel like a child. I enjoy it. I am returned to my bed and carefully set down. I smile at Tara and tell her to do something else. Tara says it was my mother who carried me and skips away.

My mother and Aunt Hettie appear in my room. They aren't walking but floating a few inches off the ground, as if standing on an invisible hovercraft. They stop at my dresser, which is a few feet to my left.

Aunt Hettie stands a yard or two behind my mother. She is dressed in everyday pants and a white shirt. Hundreds of eyelets cover the collar and chest of the shirt. My aunt seems happy, looks peaceful, but she is somewhat detached, as though she feels like an intruder or wishes she hadn't come along. Her presence makes me happy, for I know without being told she is my mother's guide, will be my mother's guardian until my mother learns the ways of heaven. Without moving my lips, I tell my aunt that I am glad she is with my mother, I thank her. Aunt Hettie smiles and she is radiant. Her skin is smooth and soft, just as I remember. She tells me without words everyone is with my mother, not just her. I know what she means without explanation. She means my father, my grandparents, and my uncles are with her. I also know my mother is surrounded by all her dear friends from school, the ones she lunched with, played Bunko with who died before her.

I look at my mother. She is so happy. She is laughing. Her brown eyes are sparkling with life. I notice her perfectly tweezed dark brows and that the hair on her head has grown back. It is more peppery than salt. She is the mother I remember in my youth, not the bald, pale, invalid mother imbued with God's spiteful venom who withered and died before my eyes.

My mother is adorned in a full-length Dashiki, an African style robe of colors: orange, red, black, purple, and swirls of yellow. The African garb is not my mother's style. My mother is white, not black. I am confused. When my mother was alive, she alternated between two pairs of slacks: one blue, one black, both with elastic waists. And despite 4 closets full of clothes, she wore the same three button-up blouses: a white with thin red, blue, and yellow vertical stripes; a pink with black vertical stripes; and a white with light blue and green plaid that had a Girl Scout emblem on the breast pocket she couldn't see. My mother did not know it was a GS Leader's shirt when she bought it at a garage sale, for she had lost most of her eyesight to diabetes. My mother bought the GS shirt for the breast pocket, I'm sure. She always liked to keep a wad of tissue in her breast pocket. I look upon my mother and see that she is not carrying the familiar wad of tissue in her hand. Her hands are empty and from this, I know she is using her hands for other things, happy things, not sick things. My sisters and I still find wads of tissues in shirt pockets, pants pockets, jacket pockets, in her old purses, under her pillow, under her bed. Their shards still appear in the dryer's lint catcher. With every find, we are reminded of her, sometimes we smile, sometimes we cry, but we are reminded and that is our peace for now.

My mother is wearing a beaded necklace which lays just above her breasts. The sight of two full breasts on my mother surprises me. It is something I have not seen on my mother since her modified radical mastectomy in '84, when she heroically survived her first cancer battle. My mother survived three bouts of cancer within 23 years. We thought she was in the clear, that she had beaten the odds, had cheated death, that the third time was the charm. We were proved wrong when a third siege sneakily crept in and took her with a vengeance.

The beads around my mother's neck are large, not at all like the dainty white pearls she adored and wore when she was alive. Sometimes the beads are black and sometimes they are hunter green or navy but they are always large and dark. Looking from the beads to my mother, I ask how she is able to be here when she is dead. My mother only smiles. I glance at my Aunt Hettie. She is standing to the side busily doing whatever, politely giving me alone time with my mother. I hug my mother. I take in her smell. It is not an old, decaying smell, she is fresh, smells of flowers and cotton candy.

As I savor my mother's scent and warmth, she begins to sway me. I realize we are slow dancing, just like the time she taught me before my first dance. I notice my feet are not on the ground. I realize my mother has been holding me up. I want to tell her that she is sick, that she should not be doing this but it feels too good to have my mother hold me. Her arms are loving. They lay tender but full-strength around me. I absorb her, let her love me. I bask in her love as her presence fills my soul. I feel my broken heart begin to patch.

As we sway, I ask my mother if she is okay, if heaven is all she dreamed of, if she is having a good time. She laughs and tells me that she and Hettie have been having the best time, the best she's ever had. She tells me they have been up to antics, that they have been children, little girls, up to lots of silliness and giggles. This does not surprise me, for my mother was voted the neighborhood's biggest cut up. Her award was a rusted old, five foot long handsaw blade with pointy teeth attached to a piece of cardboard with the words "Biggest Cut Up" above it. It still leans against the shelves in her garage. I share a long laugh with my mother and love her even more.

I ask my mother about her colorful robe. She first tells me that in heaven, you can wear whatever you want. She explains that she has to try many outfits before she is allowed to choose one. She says today, she felt like a robe of many colors.

As we sway, my mother lifts me higher, and I am crying. Without words, I tell her that she is too old, I am too big for her to hold. She says it is her turn to hold me. Her heart tells mine how grateful she is for all I have done and all that my sisters have done for her. This relieves me, for I have felt so guilty. Plagued I should have, could have done so much more for her.

My mother picks me up, lays me in her arms, and carries me. She tells me without words everything is all right, she is all right, for me not to worry. She gently sets me on my bed. I do not want her to go but I know she will. She kisses my forehead and is gone.

I awake in a dark room. I feel my mother's absence. The feeling is stronger now because I have just dreamt of her. I know my mother is happy, is having fun and is loved, but I miss her. I want my mother here with me. I want to talk to her, hear her wisdom, share my life with her. I want to hear her say "Oh, in a minute" again but heaven does not have phones. My emotions catch up with me. I try to hold back my tears but they overpower me. I turn and hug my husband and cry silently against his back.