I don't dream of him, at least not that I remember, but the other night, I did. I would think it should have been about something monumental, but it was stupid really. A silly thing, a simple thing.
Around the house I tend to wear clothes that are way to big for me. My point of view is that technically, I'm dressed, but it's really like being in your pajamas all day. I always have to keep one hand free to grab my jeans and keep them from dropping to the floor. This has happened on many occasions when I was picking something up or carrying something with both hands. Bill always laughed and shook his head, but he understood my attachment to my 'pajama jeans'. I'm big on comfort. Bras are instruments of torture in my opinion, something to put on when company is coming or I have to leave the house. I have several sizes of these too. Ones to toss on for modesty's sake, and others for when I actually care what I look like.
Anyway, in my dream I was at some sort of party. The weather must have been warm because I was wearing faded jean shorts and a purple tee. I think I was cutting a cake using both hands and sticky with frosting. There seemed to be a lot of kids running around. Suddenly I felt my shorts slipping. I knew it would be a matter of seconds, one small move and they would be around my ankles. I would be exposed in front of everyone present.
I felt his hands on my hips, sliding them back into place. He held them there, leaned down and kissed my hair. I woke up still feeling his hands, the warmth of them, the gentle strength of them, his huge grip. I smiled and reached for him, forgetting he was gone. I opened my eyes and saw the smooth covers on his side of the bed.
Death glared at me with a sick smirk on his face. Grief punched me in the heart. Loss stole my breath.
What becomes of the brokenhearted?