Grief Journal: In Dreams

I dreamt of him again.

Usually in my dreams, I am not myself. Dreams are the stories I tell myself each night, and I’m just a character, as well as the observer and narrator. But when I dream of dead people, I am always me. 

He showed up, smiling his amazing smile, his face freckled from the sun. I longed to hug him, and the observer—the part of me that always knows I am dreaming—told myself to hurry up. But he wiggled out of my arms and away, disappearing like fog in the sun. 

I started to cry in the dream, and I woke up crying. Even in my dreams, I can’t hold on to him.

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