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.
Saying the Quiet Parts Out Loud 