I remember the day I dreamt that Paul died.
I remember in the dream it was after sunset, a smear of orange still on the horizon. I remember him shot, bleeding, him leaning on me heavily as I tried to get him away from the people who casually took him from us, struggling to get him to a hospital, to somewhere someone could help him.
I remember he died in my arms, and the emotions were agonizing. I cried so hard on waking I thought I’d scare the neighbors.
That was two decades ago.
Today I’m wondering if my brain pre-grieves. Or maybe I knew somehow that the man who was – is, in a sense, since no one can replace him – my true father would be taken early.
That I knew how much anger I would feel.
It’s been almost a month since we lost him, and the loss hasn’t felt as bad as it did during (and after) that dream. But I stuff rage, bury it deep, because there’s nowhere for it to go. Anger exercises have been useless for me for years. Meditation even more useless. So I know it’s in here, lava under pressure, waiting to sear its way out of my mouth.
I wish I could talk about it, but it just makes things worse.
I suppose this is sort or a warning to myself, as well as an explanation as to why I’ve been silent. Why I’ll probably continue to be silent for a while, since I can’t really trust myself to speak.