Jun 5, 2016
I have gone backwards and forwards over the last few months over this particular space. Not sure if I needed it any more. Not sure if it was "me" anymore. Note sure if it meant anything anymore. Not sure.
And it comes back to the fact that I need to write. Need to process. As we drove home this afternoon in the very late afternoon sun I saw/ felt/ was my dream last night. I looked at the beautiful New Zealand bush illuminated by the suns last rays and my dream last night haunted me. I was the dream and it was me.
And I need to write tonight. Grief is a wheel and it turns. I hide it well and manage to carry on. But I lost my parents suddenly and in awful ways and it haunts me still.
Last night I dreamed of my parents. I walked up the hill at the children's school at the end of the school day. And there they were. They were together and standing with my sisters. I knew they had been there a while and my first feeling was of loss that they had been here for a while and I hadn't known.
I clung to them and they explained that they had somehow found a way from heaven to earth. They had walked from there to here and could not explain how they had done it. And here they were. We talked for a while and then they said they had to go. And no we couldn't go with them. My Mom and Dad walked away together, like they always were- a duo. Across the school fields and down the road. We all knew that they were unsure of how they would get back but they were going to walk through the bush and hope that the way back was like the way here.
In the way of all dreams there was a mix of real and unreal. There was a big swarth of bush near the school and my sisters and I went after my parents and stopped at the edge of the bush which was illuminated by the suns last rays. We were uncertain about following them in case we disturbed the way back for them and so we looked into the darkening woods and waited.
I am sure this is filled with all sorts of signs and things we process in the cycle of grief. But all I know for sure tonight is that I miss them. And I don't to forget that I do miss them. So I write.