Dreams

This strange feeling of déjà vu...

I was sitting in a pew, my uncle on the side of me, my grandmother on my right, tissues clutched in her hand as we all looked toward the altar, more specifically at the pearly casket in front of it. The Father’s pristine white robes looked dull, even light gray compared to the coffin, the gold in the shawl draped over his shoulders not outshining the clarity of the gold of the cross on the purple blanket he placed over the length of the coffin. I heard the words he was saying, but I didn’t hear them at the same time.

 

I knew they were about the man that lay in the coffin, of the loved ones he left behind, the life he lived, the people that would miss him.

 

I was bitter, numb, and emotionless. I had yet to cry, the only one not to do so as of yet. I didn’t believe what was happening. And at the same time, I didn’t understand.

 

All I saw in my world of black and white was the sun shining through the painted glass and hitting the casket, the pearl almost glowing. The purple of the blanket was a deep violet, beautiful in its vibrant complement to the shining, deep gold cross that sat in the middle, reaching the complete length of the blanket.

 

And then I jolted awake, so forcefully, tumbling out of my bed and smashing my hand on my bedside table. I couldn’t tell if I cried out more from the fall or from the dream, but he came running into my room, comforting me and placing me carefully back in my bed, patting me once on the head before leaving again as I fell back asleep.

 

Seven years later, I would see the completion of that dream, finally spilling my tears as the rolled his casket away. Knowing why I was numb, not because I didn’t believe, but because I realized what I remembered.

 

Finally breaking down because I realized this was real, and it was the last time I would ever see him.