I Dreamt You

Twice I dreamt you. Here I was – living squarely in mortality – where decisions are based on logic and yes or no to another baby is as simple as counting up check marks on either side of a pros and cons list. Your check marks, I hesitate to tell you, all sat neatly and tidily – like dusted off hands after a job well done – on the cons list. And yet . . . there you were – rippling in and out of my vision like a reflection on water -- none of those check marks quite able to erase your reality. The parts of my soul least tethered to five senses knew you existed -- were waiting – someplace close but separate from here. (Refusing to accept that I might not be brave enough or to acknowledge my fear that it was too much.) And yet, what a frightening thing it felt to dare take you from that place: to say you were mine, wrap you in a body, and set you solidly here – among mortals; mortal yourself. Still, it’s exactly what I have done. For here is where you now are. Clear and certain: little fingers that clench tightly around mine, short little breaths raising your chest. There no longer exists any tenuous rippling, no hesitation about your existence, no argument over our connection. And, . . . it is right. Holding you I finally know it (unquestioningly). All those check marks have erased themselves. Yet . . . somehow, by bringing you here, you have drawn me a little closer to there. And as I hold you – all soft new skin and beating heart – I feel a weight in my chest: an almost painful homesickness; and my soul aches a little to think of the separation I have brought between you and that place.