He Comes Into My Dreams ......

                                                                    source

...... far less than I'd like.
I think.

That's the way it's been since the beginning.  I can't remember how long it took before I finally had a dream with Jim in it, but it was several weeks after his death.

I remember the first dream vividly.
He and I were sitting at a table, across from each other.
We both knew he was dead.  But he came to reassure me that he could see the children ...... and me.
And that he would always be there.
Then he disappeared and I dreamed another scene, without him in it.
After that scene happened, he came back.  And proceeded to tell me everything that had just occurred, to prove to me that he really could see me.

That the was the first, and best, dream.

As I said, I seldom dream of him.
But when I do, most of the time he reappears after all this time, only he's alive.  He tells me that he just left for a while.
And usually I stare at him, open-mouthed in disbelief.  And I want to be very, very pissed at him.
But I never am.
I simply tell him everything we've been through in his absence.
In the belief that he was dead.
And I am so ...... well, as you can imagine ...... beyond relieved, joyful, happy, etc., that he's not dead.  And that he's back.
That's about the time I usually wake up.
Damn it.

A few times, like last night, I've had dreams that left me ...... unsettled, for lack of a better word.
So unsettled that I'm glad I don't dream of him more often.
I don't remember as much about those dreams when I wake up ...... except that he's always dead in them.

I have no idea what any of these dreams mean.
Or actually, if they mean anything, which I doubt.

And I have no idea why I haven't dreamt of him more often.
Or what that means, if anything.

But ...... just as I remember the best dream ...... I also remember the absolute worst.
Which sounds like a good dream.
On the face of it.

Jim came into the house while I was still in bed one morning.  I woke up and saw him going into the bathroom and I started crying, almost hysterically.  He came to me and held me and asked me what was wrong.
I told him that I thought he had died ...... and I told him everything that had happened since.
He assured me that he was very much alive ...... and that I had only had a nightmare (shades of "Dallas", anyone?)
The dream kept going after that ...... with him being very, very alive.
And there was no containing my happiness.

And then ...... I woke up.
And I believed, for almost one full minute, that the dream had been real.  And that this whole thing had only been a nightmare.
Then, after that glorious, wonderful minute ...... reality woke me the rest of the way up.
And I cried.
And cried.

I still cry, remembering that morning.
It was horrible ...... to wake up thinking that life was as it should be again.  And that I had only dreamed a nightmare.

Instead of actually living in one.

Maybe I am glad he seldom comes into my dreams.
It's easier to find hope again when you don't dream the impossible.
At least for me.