Odd cranial rumblings, remembering the many dreams where my dead husband returns without explanation, five, or six, or seven years later, solemn and silent, wanting back in. And my utter disbelief, relief, consternation. The chaos of it all, the impossible undoing of too many things now too deeply entrenched to undo.
And an even odder realization that I wrote a poem about these dreams thirty years ago, many years before I knew the reason for writing it. I went back to it tonight and it made sense, finally, that poem. It's the dream alright, with broken glass and a leaky roof and the return of a silent character —
"....dark collar turned against the night."
A bitter irony: the title is "Grown Old".
Something wrong in the order of things.