I don’t often remember the details of my dreams. When I do, the dreams are so vivid and clear that I sometimes terrify myself with my inability to distinguish between what’s real and what’s conjured up.

Last night, the dream centred on a family member’s memorial that is to be held this weekend. Kind words and gifts a plenty; celebrations will be had. That part felt grounded— real.

But, having the deceased present at their own memorial, in full human form and not dead like in Beetlejuice— I didn’t see that coming.

I was completely unprepared. There weren’t enough chairs. One short. The gifts, instead of being abundant, were lacking. One short. I had no clue whether the eulogy would automatically turn into a roast with the guest of honor sitting right there, or if I’d have to add in some over-the-top sarcasm just to balance things out. One short.

Of course, the dead don’t rise, and conjuring someone through a Sheldon-like Beetlejuice call is unfortunately not a reality. But the clarity of the dream has left me wondering:

What’s stirring in my mind?

What is to come this weekend that I’m not ready for? That I could never prepare for?

What unresolved conversations still need to happen with the dead that I’m unwilling to be a present participant in?

Timekeeper

Words for a mother who has passed.
...

Buoyant ships, steady and slow,
Moments where time seems to suspend,
Yet the journey always continues.

Grandkids, like time itself—
Always enough in the moment,
But never enough to fill a lifetime.

Blue Jays on a summer afternoon,
The crack of a bat echoes,
Always waiting for the season
That might come again.

Mustard, bright and simple,
Her joy in every bite,
A small piece of her passed down.

And the Browns—
Through all the seasons,
Her loyalty never wavered,
Faithful till the end.