Now Playing -
whatever Huz was listening to to lull him to sleep.
Now Eating -
nothing.
Now Feeling -
too tired.
Now Tweeting
- Melanie
It hasn't been the best of Octobers, rife with drama onstage and off. I'm stressed at work and stressed at home, and I haven't been sleeping well at all. I was so exhausted it was a relief to collapse into bed a little after eleven Thursday evening.
And then I dreamed of him, the first dream since the week after he died.
We were doing A Christmas Carol, and there was a flood in town. Not the usual "rising water table seeping into the theater basement" flood, but an honest-to-goodness Johnstown. Water roiled through the town, yet we were surprisingly calm and organized, filing up the street in search of a house in which to finish the performance. I was minding my Cratchit children, three girls as opposed to the usual two, all dressed as I was in red gowns and white mobcaps. And he was walking behind me, just visible out of the corner of my eye, discussing with Scrooge Himself what they were going to do when they found a suitable place to perform. And I did not try to speak to him, didn't even attempt to catch his eye. But he wouldn't acknowledge me. That was all I felt when I awoke.
He wouldn't acknowledge me.
I woke up, looked at the clock. Only 12:45 a.m. Plenty of sleeping still to be done. But as I lay back down, I started to sob. And stopped myself. Started, stopped. I wanted to cry but knew if I did, sleep would be a long time coming. So I took the stone that I keep on my nightstand, the one I had chosen from the box of tumbled stones Stephen had found while we were going through his things, the one that is the color of sand and evening sky and shaped like a sail, and clutched it in my hand as I slid it under the pillow.
And slept, fitfully.
I had scheduled a lesson with Joy after work, ostensibly to work on the music for my next show, but when I woke up I knew I wanted to sing something else.
We spent an hour-and-a-half catching up between vocal exercises, and then settled into the "real" singing.
Somehow I made it through the setting of Millay's "Time Does Not Bring Relief," but when I got to the setting of "Lament," and the lines
Life must go on,
And the dead be forgotten;
Life must go on,
Though good men die
I lost it.
And explained to Joy why, and that it was the same thing that troubled me about the first dream: it's like he's there, but he's not really there. People say they feel his presence, but a year-and-a-half later I'm still looking for that sign.
And I haven't found it yet.
I don't know if I will. If I ever will.
Joy then said, "Maybe he comes to those he knows still need to see him. Maybe because you're strong enough (even though those who know you well know you're not inside), he knows you'll be okay."
And I have been okay, for the most part. There are always the difficult moments: the first sunset of the summer, the first day at the beach house. But I go off on my own and talk to him and cry a little and remember the good parts, all the amazingly good parts. And think of the amazingly good parts yet to come.
I just wish he were here to see them.
(*It means "dreams" in Yiddish, Joy.)
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a very fine cat indeed - Friday, Jan. 17, 2014
happy new year! - Thursday, Jan. 24, 2013
this is where i am - Saturday, Jun. 30, 2012
this is how it is - Friday, Feb. 24, 2012
a very late last year's wrap-up - Wednesday, Jan. 18, 2012
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