In dreams, she’s always as I remember her: young, slight, and full of wonder.
She left this life in her late twenties from cancer, leaving behind a husband and two small children, the youngest being not quite a year old. That child is now around thirty.
I watch her slowly make her way towards the lights. The landscape is beautiful, otherworldly.
Towards the end, she was bitter; and I, young as I was, didn’t understand. She didn’t want to die. She had lived an open, joyful life. Why was this happening to her?
There is a light breeze blowing her hair, and beautiful music. There’s a sort of domed city at the edge of the trees.
She was the younger sister of a woman who was (and is) a very good friend. On the anniversary of her sister’s death, my friend posted a number of pictures of her late sister on Facebook. Love may come to terms with death, but the parameters of the negotiation are very one-sided.
It seems to be winter, but the dome is giving off warmth. She’s dressed to sleep.
I wish the good didn’t die young, but I’m not in control of that; none of us are. We’re in a play we didn’t write, and don’t produce: players leave the stage, sometimes, and we don’t see them again. Except in photographs and dreams.
She reaches her hand for a door. The dream dissolves.