Objects of the Dead
Now that I am sitting here cradling a coffee in the cold light of morning, I know with full certainty that I am firmly planted in reality. I am alive. Moments ago, I also believed I was walking through the real world, but you were there. You spoke and moved exactly as you do, and nothing could have felt more true. Except, that I was telling you how real you seemed to be, and you responded “Oh, that isn’t what I wanted. Maybe you should forget about me.” As you turned to walk away, I woke up with my face hanging off of the edge of the bed, as the cool grey floorboards came into focus. I wasn’t home, I was here, in a rented place, and you are gone.
Just before telling you how real you were, the three of us were sitting at the dining room table, Sister and Dad with strange concerned looks on their faces, as I cheerfully relayed something about nothing to you as you smiled back and interjected from behind Dad’s chair. You were leaning the way that you do, and only you do. It became evident when my sister teared up, that only I saw you there, fully formed and healthy in the warm incandescent light. It would appear that your replies were either unspoken or coming from my own mouth. Her confirmation that I was talking to myself broke the dream. I woke up in our hallway telling you about it, just before you told me to forget. I tried to explain as you faded away about the seeds that were planted, growing tendrils, flowers blooming releasing the memories. But all too quickly you were gone, and I was staring at the floorboards, in a rented place.
A spiritual leader said one should throw away the objects of the dead, even burn their clothes, for the dead have no place here. One should banish their energy. That isn’t what I wanted. I took some of your clothes. Your hairbrush is in my drawer. Your glasses rest on books in my studio. I water your plants and propagate their cuttings. All I want is for you to be real again, to be here.
