Swimming back to shore

Last week I had one of those dreams that hangs around. Like when you sleep with someone and the next day keep smelling his aftershave in your hair. The dream weaves in and out of my thoughts, coloring everything a little. And then the dream pops up in focus unexpectedly, or I find it at the corner of my thoughts. And it's all back again.

In the dream, it was a gray day, and I was walking along a beach with my sister. (In one of those inexplicable details of dreams, I know that we were walking north.) And my sweet dog Casey was running along side us, playing where the waves reach as far as they can, stretching onto the shore until they are shallow and thin, a tiny lace of bubbles disappearing into the sand. She was barking at the froth it left behind.

I was talking to my sister about something else, something unimportant. But I was enjoying watching Casey play at the water's edge. And then I remembered the awful fact that Casey's dead.

My sister saw me stiffen and take in my breath.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Casey," I said. "She shouldn't be here. She's dead."

It was horrible realizing that she was dead, that she'd have to leave me again and couldn't play on the beach. It was like opening a wonderful present and then being told it has to go back to the store, you can't keep it.

"No, it's okay! " said my sister. "Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?"

"That we THOUGHT she was dead, but she really wasn't. She'd just been pulled out to sea by a big wave. But she swam back to shore. She was just down the beach, and we found her. Remember?"

In the dream, suddenly, I did remember, and I was happy again. And we continued our dream walk, and Casey played with the little waves.

When I woke up, I was smiling. And then of course I remembered that oh yeah, she really IS dead. And it was horrible again, as it always is when I remember that.

That fact is like spilled mercury. It's broken into so many pieces that I can't quite grab onto and collect, because it keeps rolling away from me and breaking into more pieces for me to retrieve. And all of them are cold poison.

But there's another way of looking at it, and I'm trying to focus on that. Maybe dying is like being swept out to sea by a big wave. And maybe somehow in time I'll find her again down the beach.

You wouldn't think it would hurt this much, would you?

Jesus wept.

Listen to me. That's three morose postings in a row.

It's this moving thing. Really. It's stressing me out. I mean, I am not walking around crying into my teacup. I'm making lists and hanging out with friends. My best friend's wedding was this weekend and I had a great time. I've got some money coming my way, and the guy who plows my driveway in Vermont called today to tell me that my house is still standing and that as of 9:30 this evening, the heat was still on. (This is a very good thing. An empty house in Vermont in sub-zero temperatures can be a costly proposition.)

But all I have to do is sit down to write and I become Miss Doom and Gloom. That's the way the tension comes out, I guess.

Time passes and things change. I know that. And as James Taylor sang, "the secret of life is enjoying the passing of time. "

It's just that on top of the rest of the planning and organization stress, and the ordinary stress of change, this move means that I will be living in a house that Casey will never live in. Whereas now, here, there's a space that is her absence. I know all the places where she once was, and all the places that, now, she is not. One corner of my bedroom is where Casey used to sleep, and a tree in my backyard is where Casey every morning she used to stand, looking up, barking at squirrels. Next to the sofa in the living room, there's a smudge on the wall (that I can't bear to wipe off) where she brushed against it every night, turning around three times before lying down.

I'm moving. And someone else will find that smudge and wipe it off. Someone else will just see it as a smudge on the wall, not knowing that it was left there by the sweetest dog who ever lived. One squirt from the bottle of Fantastic and swipe of a paper towel, and that will be the last of Casey. Except in my heart, of course. There, her mark is indelible.

Maybe the last day I am here, I'll wipe the wall smudge off. Take control of that, doing it myself instead of leaving it for the new owner of this house, who won't know that it's a memorial of sorts. Who won't look at it and wonder what happens when we die, if the tide can bring us back in, if we can swim back again to be with those who love us.

Good Lord. That's it. Tomorrow I'm challenging myself to write something uplifting so you guys don't think I'm about to jump off a bridge.

Stay tuned. Better, happier thoughts ahead.