Lilacs Out of the Dead Land

(title taken from “The Waste Land” by T.S Eliot)

I have something to confess: last night, I dreamt of your wake.

The thing is, you were older. Your hair was shorter. Your dress was newer. If I leaned down to touch you, your skin could have warmed my palm. You were fresh. It was recent.

This dream wasn’t a nightmare; in fact, as soon as I woke up, I squeezed my eyes shut again and desperately tried to fall back into your arms. You were still above the soil and you were so beautiful.

Truly, there are too many albums you haven’t listened to. I’m angry about the existence of Airbuds. And also, I’ve driven by your headstone too many times to make sense of why I never stop and remember, just for the smallest moment, how wide your smile was when I told you I liked your outfit.

“Really? This one?”

Yes, I’d say, of course, you could wear anything and you’d still look so pretty.

So, the dream was not a nightmare. It might have even been a wish. Actually, it was a prayer. I prayed to relive the worst days of my life to have you in arm’s reach.

(In my weakest moments, I asked my friends who are witches if they knew anything of necromancy.)

(Surely, I’d sign some sort of contract with a god unknown to me, with pearls for eyes and a winged body. I would turn my heart ugly.)

When I fall asleep tonight, I hope to see you alive, your face caught in an expression of laughter so unconfined it is nearly tangible. I hope to hold a flexing hand. I hope to braid your hair, and that it is long again, freshly washed and silken.

I cope without you by dreaming. Sometimes, these dreams truly are nightmares, and the gravediggers don’t stop at six feet, and they dig a hole deep enough to reach the center of the earth, and they toss you into it, and I dive toward you with my hands outstretched, and our friends follow, and we are all just falling into a portal that shrinks us into nothing, and we can still see and hear each other, but we can’t feel, not at all, not even when we reach the bottom and we explode into particles. For moments at a time, we look like horseflies, and we are screaming so loudly it startles the life in hiding.

Something else to confess: I’ve missed you longer than I’ve known you.

In some dreams, we are childhood friends. Our mothers buy us matching backpacks. I have my first nightmare at your house. You fix me up a cup of warm milk and rest your little head on my shoulder.