Don't Wake Up

I had a dream. Well, I've had lots of dreams. But this dream, in particular, I want to tell you about. Tell someone about. Anyone. Really, I can't tell many people about this, but you look like someone I can trust. I can trust you, right?

Okay.

I'm going to tell you anyway. I had a dream, I have a dream every night, but this dream was different than the rest. So now I'll tell you about it. I'm stalling. I know. It's just, I don't know where to start. You have to know many things before this dream will make sense, and I don't know how to explain those things. Well, explain them in a way that will sound normal. Because it's not normal. Dreams are never normal, especially mine. I don't want to sound like I'm bragging about my uniqueness or anything like that. Truthfully, I would rather this weren't true at all and that I didn't have to deal with this individuality or whatever you want to call it. It's different, yes. But I find no pleasure or pride in being different. I would prefer not to be. I'm stalling again. I'll get right into it.

No more digressions.

My mother died when I was nine. Yes, sad. I was devastated. She walked me to school and then to the bus stop after I switched schools every single day before she left this world. She would always tell me stories of the dreams that she had had the previous night. Thrilling action, strange alternate realities, comical adjustments to this world, only in that world. I lived for these stories. Every morning, I was excited to leave for school because I would be able to listen to more of her stories. She always managed to finish half of the story by the time we got to our destination. I barely made it to the end of the school day. I had to know what happened next. Every time she picked me up again, she finished the story just as soon as we got home. Today, I'm not sure how much of the dream stories were altered for my listening discretion, but as a young boy, I was completely enthralled with her tales. She was my best friend.

The day before she died, her story on our walk to the bus stop ended before we even got there. She couldn't remember what had happened. She got to the part where three men had cornered her in an alley because they wanted a letter that she had received from a stranger. But, as they approached, she stopped. I begged her to continue; I had to know how the story ended! But she didn't. She admitted that she didn't remember. I noticed as I looked up that her face was missing the normal brightness: her eyes were red, there were shadows under them, and her mouth was tired. It looked as if she hadn't slept in days. I assured her that it would be okay, and that tonight she would be able to finish the dream and tell me the ending tomorrow. She smiled at me and squatted down abruptly. I love you, she said, urgently, I love you so much, my baby. Don't ever forget that. You are the light of my life. You, Addison, and your father. I love you all with my entire heart. I was confused at the suddenness of this confession, and I told her that I knew she loved me, and that I love her too. She pulled me into a deep embrace, and then released me to climb up into the bus. I looked back at her as we drove away, but she didn't meet my gaze this time, she was frowning at the ground, hands in her pockets, exhausted.

My little sister Addy was only a baby when she died. She doesn't remember very much of our mother. But I remember everything. I remember her thick, black hair that just almost reached her elbows before she would get it trimmed. I remember the blue and green flowered scarf that she wore on chilly Vancouver afternoons. I remember the intoxicating smile that she reserved for special occasions. To her, almost every occasion was special. I remember the warmth of her lips when she would attack my face with kisses and I would pretend to hate it. I remember her standing behind my father in his study, rubbing his shoulders, and he turning around suddenly to ball her up into his lap and rest his head on her chest as she ran her fingers through his hair. I remember her light.