Six Years On

I never dream of him, though I have always wanted to. I've wanted a chance to see him, because I can't picture how he would look real, here. I've had dreams about people I have lost, dreams in which I've been granted the chance to say goodbye. Other dreams have ended when I wake up, bewildered, because in my dream the person I love has really been alive all these years, and I've been lied to about their death.

Why can't I dream of him? Would it give me any comfort if I did?

* * *

Six years ago I sat in a different house from the one I sit in today, across town, disbelieving. "I'm sorry, he's gone," the doctor told me that morning, and my life fell apart.

* * *

Last week I sat in the candlelight at a Christmas service for people who have a hard time at the holidays, in the very same chapel where we gathered to say goodbye to Ben six years ago. I felt him there. I always do. I almost never feel him with me anywhere else. And I talked to him.

Where are you, little one?

I'm here, mama, I'm here.

Where?

Right here, he said, and I felt a flutter in my heart.

I'm always here.