Dreams must be made up of tiny pieces of our day time experience. Thoughts, images, and memories are the snapping, sizzling, and flashes of a Fourth of July Sparkler recaptured in random order and shown on the movie screen of our eyelids.
Aaron keeps having a pain in his chest in my dream. He complains of this pain and then loses consciousness. As Aaron is slipping away, I'm trying to revive him and shouting to not fall asleep. Aaron lays back on the couch and closes his eyes. Aaron dies every time.
Last night was a different dream. Aaron was coming home. Yes, Thursday, 7:30 PM he would arrive home. "Oh, thank God, it's over", dream me said. "Gotta tell Cathy and Patrick." And then I woke up. Thursday nights were our weekly "call from MBA" night.
For a week now I have been looking away from pictures and memories. I wonder if my grip on Aaron's hand is slipping. Two years and a couple of months ago I held Aaron in a big hug. He filled my arms. Two years ago I dreamt I held Aaron in my arms until he turned brilliant white and became no more solid than wind. Is the wind changing?
"How many children do you have?"
"I have two sons."
"How old are they?"
"Patrick is 16, and Aaron is 18 forever...he'd be 20 this year."
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