Turning the Page

I had a dream I was alone in a crowded room. Every eye meets mine in time but not a one will linger. I remember it as this:

Set before the sign of times, a wounded dog sat silently with anguish in his eyes. An ID tag shone brightly, a talisman which bends the light but only slightly, though none but me would notice his decay.

Kneeling down as if my soft approach and kindly hands could render any healing aid to any man or beast; he said, "Don't bother, friend, for their windows hold obsidian deceased." His hind quarters sticking tight to cold and heartless tiles, his upper half would separate and simply walk away.

'Pure obsidian?' I considered, turning back upon this crowded room. All their eyes had turned to black--cold as death, dark as night--but fear had not become me, for their eyes avoided mine at every sight. Pure obsidian, indeed, but might as well be clay.

At my shoulder, then, a tapping. "Excuse me, my good man." I turned to see a grey-haired humble man with stubbled beard and hat in hand. "Are you alive?" he questioned coolly, just as casually as asking for a light or time of day.

'Are you alive?' I now considered, turning back upon this crowded room. Seeing now I knew them all, each and every soul, wandering and mingling with eyes as black as coal. "That's a funny question, friend--or curious, that is to say."

"'Curious' I understand--it's not as if this were a tomb--but if you'll listen to their words you'll come to know, as surely as they wander here and there and to and fro, such repetition stirs the flesh. At least... the living tend to feel this way."

At once I felt the warning as was accurate and true. My thoughts indeed recoiled as chills crawled ceaselessly across my skin. I heard their words in numbing repetition from within. They'd turn to one another, blindly speaking: "I'm sorry, Miss LeCrae."

"Who are these solemn wanderers? Why do they speak that name? I know them all--I feel somehow, though I don't seem to know their faces. And each of them would beg forgiveness but I wonder, on what basis; and why do all their tongues beseech the name of Miss LeCrae?"

Then the walls would stretch apart revealing forests in the night, ceilings would disintegrate, melted by the moon--something truly terrible I felt was coming soon. Turning to the bearded man, his eyes fell black and skin turned pale, "I'm sorry, Miss LeCrae."

He sank into the others, lost into the crowd and din. "What is this place?!" I shouted. "Who are you people?!" I'd demand. Then at my shoulder another tapping--softer, gentler, kinder hand. Frozen in an instant--she used to tap my shoulder that same way.

Falling to my knees, I shudder. How I've prayed to see her face, to hold her hand, to smell her scent once more--what powers brought her voice to fill my ears, I thank them cruelly from my core. With all my heart and mind and soul--I should have been with her that day.

"Daddy?"

The word drew tears, her voice stole my breath. My heart nearly burst from my chest in elation--feeding in me something lost to starvation--and I held her so tightly not even death could steal her away.

"I think about you every day..." I begin to say. "Don't," she interrupts me then. "Don't let it take your life away. Find new passions, make new friends. Worse would be to say that heartache never ends. Journey on and live life come what may."

"I want to share so much with you..." "And still you will someday. Do great things and share adventures, no one lives forever. And when we meet again we'll read the pages of your life together--not just the past, but future days."

The walls enclose us once again, half a dog's obsidian, the wanderers refill the din, meandering and mingling. I feel my skin start tingling; the eyes as dark as coal. Every one a fervent plea--"I'm sorry, Miss LeCrae."

"Live your life and give your love; write your story everyday. Keep your chapters strictly non-fiction; say everything you need to say, do everything wholehearted. But you'll never share your story if you never start it, and the first step is letting go.

"Please, you have to let go."

And should I have this dream again, and if it was a dream I ponder, though they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, who is that someone, what place that somewhere, what is that something I should say? But I still think of her along the way.

And I think of what she said to me, "Say everything you need to say; and in your time of dying, when your life is flashed before your eyes--those memories you've memorized--you'll know the only thing to say is..."

then she fades away