When Reality Doesn't Feel Real

I dreamed last night that Steven was still here.

I’m surprised it’s taken me this long. That first terrible night, I was sure I’d dream of him. “Oh, you didn’t die! It was all a dream!” I’d say, hugging him, and he’d grin, and then I’d wake up. Terrible!

But that didn’t happen at all. Instead, I dreamed that my eyebrows were horrendous, bushy things, an inch thick, and I knew Steven was dead.

Since then, I’ve dreamed all sorts of wild and terrible things. Other loved ones dying gruesome deaths while I shake my head and think, “That’s it. Everyone is going to die.” Stress dreams where my family won’t bury Steven because they’re too busy arguing about logistics, or where we have to do a second funeral for those who couldn’t make it to the first one, and I forgot to bring the paper where I wrote my tribute.

But last night, for the first time, I dreamed that Steven was alive.

Steven wasn’t exactly in the dream. I didn’t see him and think, “Wow! You’re here!” It was just that everything was normal. My whole family went and got a house at the coast together. Jenny was frustrated because she wanted to watch a race on TV and couldn’t figure out how to get the right channel. I went into one of the bedrooms, where I expected to see two double beds, but there was only one, bringing the total in the house to three.

I suppose the boys will have to sleep in the living room, I thought. Matt and Phoebe will get one bed, Mom and Dad the other, and I guess Amy, Jenny and I will squeeze into this one.

That’s how I know Steven was alive in the dream. Not because I specifically remember seeing him, but because I thought, the boys will have to sleep in the living room. “The boys” means Ben and Steven. Both of them.