The Bloody Doors Off

I woke up at 5:30 am this morning, a storm blowing outside my open windows. I was wet, but from sweat, not rain.

It’s approaching the anniversary of my mom’s passing (tomorrow), and clearly my subconscious mind is aware of this.

I had a dream the dead were coming back, to visit loved ones and converse. There was nothing hideous about this; they weren’t decomposed, with raw fingers from clawing their way up from the ground. It was as if they’d appeared whole.

And as much as I tried to get my mother’s attention, she ignored me and walked into the distance. I dunno, maybe she was off to speak with my step-father, who’s having an equally if not moreso difficult time dealing with her death.

What unnerved me is who showed up to talk. My clearly alive, and healthy I might add, in real life, brother Wayne.

To think of him as having passed on was truly the stuff of nightmares.

I also remember talking with a Cantor and a Rabbi (who were alive) and having a philosophical discussion about life, death, and the afterlife. There were people who didn’t believe the dead were returning, and I needed to set people straight.

At one point I thought, “if this were the rapture, that isn’t so bad.”

And now I’m awake and cannot go back to sleep. In case I run into him again.