Scribbled at 2:04 a.m.,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As the dream won\u2019t let me sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because somehow, 30 years later, I\u2019m back there again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Watching the performance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The funeral.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The fanfare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And feeling the same quiet scream in my chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I knew it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt<\/em> it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But in the dream\u2014and in real life\u2014there was a song, swaying, a show.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Young boys collecting coins (odd, right?).<\/p>\n\n\n\n A calm mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n People were moving around me like nothing had shattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It felt like theater.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And I was the only one who didn\u2019t get the script.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was the girl in shock,<\/p>\n\n\n\n in awe,<\/p>\n\n\n\n and in awe of my own silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No one matched the gravity I felt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Not then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Not in the dream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And maybe not for years after.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So, what is this dream telling me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n What does it want?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe it\u2019s not about reliving<\/em> it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe it\u2019s about reclaiming<\/em> it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My truth of that dreadful day\u2014without the performance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Without the choreography of grief that made everyone else comfortable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe I\u2019m finally naming something that was never said but always felt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe this is about validating the deep injustice of feeling invisible inside my own heartbreak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe at 51, I am now ready to hold that younger version of me and whisper,<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou weren\u2019t wrong.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n You weren\u2019t too much.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n You just felt what others couldn\u2019t face.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n This dream didn\u2019t come to haunt me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It came to hand me something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A mirror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A pen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A way back to myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I write.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Scribbling my way out of silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Word by word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Feeling by feeling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No more performance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Just my truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I keep writing\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n because there\u2019s a numbness that never left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A kind of going-through-the-motions that\u2019s dressed itself up well over the years\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n smiles at the right times, laughs at the right jokes,<\/p>\n\n\n\n gets the job done.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But underneath the mask,<\/p>\n\n\n\n it\u2019s like I\u2019ve been living in grayscale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And people don\u2019t see it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They see the competence, the resilience, the woman who keeps it all afloat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They don\u2019t see the velvet chair I sink into when no one\u2019s watching,<\/p>\n\n\n\n where I sit in the shadows,<\/p>\n\n\n\n watching my own life like a play I never quite got cast in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n How does one live in technicolor<\/p>\n\n\n\n when the darkness has been so thick for so long?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sometimes, I feel the stage light catch me\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n a moment of joy, of beauty, of connection\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n and for a fleeting second, it pierces the dark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But then it fades again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And I\u2019m back in the velvet chair,<\/p>\n\n\n\n back in the hush,<\/p>\n\n\n\n back in the space between who I was before and who I had to become.<\/p>\n\n\n\n People say without saying, \u201cThat was years ago. Move on.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n They often say it gently, or with edginess, or even\u2014with pity in their empty eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But what they don\u2019t understand is this:<\/p>\n\n\n\n I can\u2019t.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s not a choice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It never was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My heart won\u2019t let me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It holds that little girl close\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n the one who lost the one person who made my world feel safe,<\/p>\n\n\n\n and never really got him or that feeling back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019s still there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Still stunned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Still wondering how joy is supposed to feel the same<\/p>\n\n\n\n when the ground underneath her never stopped shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe I\u2019ll never \u201cget over it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe that\u2019s not the point.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe the point is learning to live with it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n To carry the grief with tenderness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n To stop trying to erase the ache,<\/p>\n\n\n\n and instead, ask what it wants me to remember.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And throughout the years\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n there have been moments.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Bright, breathing, real<\/em> moments<\/p>\n\n\n\n that pulled me out of the velvet chair,<\/p>\n\n\n\n out of the darkened, dank theater,<\/p>\n\n\n\n and back into life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My sons\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n my two most extraordinary awakenings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They cracked open my numbness<\/p>\n\n\n\n with their smiles and sticky fingers,<\/p>\n\n\n\n wide eyes,<\/p>\n\n\n\n and unexpected laughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They remind me of him\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n in the way they move,<\/p>\n\n\n\n the quiet way they see<\/em> me,<\/p>\n\n\n\n the way they love without needing permission.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s in them I remember what it felt like<\/p>\n\n\n\n to be loved like that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n To be known without needing to perform.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And my hubs\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n his patience,<\/p>\n\n\n\n his steadiness,<\/p>\n\n\n\n his willingness to love me even when I don\u2019t always know how to mirror it back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There\u2019s a quiet heroism in his loyalty to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In staying when the joy doesn\u2019t come easy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In holding space, when I run and disappear into myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then there\u2019s nature\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n those holy moments are when I am surrounded by something older, wilder, bigger than me, and my grief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The mountains, the ocean, the birds, and the wind threading through trees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That\u2019s when perspective finds me again,<\/p>\n\n\n\n reminding me that I, too, am temporary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That one day, I\u2019ll be gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And maybe, just maybe, someone will sit in their own velvet chair<\/p>\n\n\n\n thinking of me,<\/p>\n\n\n\n feeling both the weight of loss and the gift of love that came before it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n These technicolor moments\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n they don\u2019t erase the grief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But they occupy it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They soften its edges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They make it breathable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They remind me that my pain did not steal everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That love still lives within.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Even when it arrives in quiet ways.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe I won\u2019t ever fully move on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I am learning how to move with it<\/u>.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n With the ache.<\/p>\n\n\n\n With the light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n With the knowing<\/p>\n\n\n\n that feeling this much\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n even still\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n means I\u2019m still alive.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Scribbled at 2:04 a.m., As the dream won\u2019t let me sleep. Because somehow, 30 years later, I\u2019m back there again. Watching the performance. The funeral. The fanfare. And feeling the same quiet scream in my chest. He died. And I knew it. I felt it. But in the dream\u2014and in real life\u2014there was a song, swaying, a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":966,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[31,53,48,46,32,27],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-963","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-death","category-dreams","category-growth","category-healing","category-living","category-reflection"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/963","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=963"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/963\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":965,"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/963\/revisions\/965"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/966"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=963"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=963"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/prolificpreambles.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=963"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}