by Charmaine Peterson
I had a dream.
Nightmare really. I dreamt you were dead. You are dead, but I prefer to think of it as a dream.
I know…it’s a terrible thing to confess.
In my dream, one of your kids called me. I showed up at the funeral. I felt out of place and stood in the back. I didn’t wear black. I cried, quietly. I didn’t want anyone to know I was there.
I know you think I’m stupid. If you’re ever in the hospital in real life, you’ll appreciate this stupid Molecular Biology drop out. Test me. No don’t…
Then there was a procession. People walked by the casket. Open casket. We stood in line.
When I reached you, I climbed into the casket.
I had to. I grabbed your arms and tried to make them go around me. They were flat and lifeless.
Why didn’t anyone tell me you were sick? I could have saved you.
Now I’m a solitary soldier, flying alone in the sky. My world has become black and white. There are no colors.