You called last night. In my dream, my cell phone rang and it was your voice. I don’t remember the words, but I remember understanding that you were someone who knew the family and knew about the suicide. I recognized your voice. Parenthetically, I can still hear your voice in my mind.
I asked who it was calling. You said, “Dan. No! Not that Dan.” I remember telling you yes, you were that Dan. I told you how much I miss you and love you. You told me I was wrong; it wasn’t really you. I believe language might have entered the conversation at that point. Specifically the word “bullshit.” I will never forget the sound of your voice.
You told me you were fine, alive and happy. You just had to get away from everything in your life. You wanted me to know the truth.
This is where the dream took a turn. I started debating if I should tell anyone. I knew if you told me, you were trusting me to keep your secret. But it would be wrong to let mom think you were dead when you weren’t. She wouldn’t tell anyone, would she? What about Scott? No, Scott would tell someone and it would be all over.
So how did that work? There was a body that the police found. At the morgue, there would have been an autopsy — I know there was because I talked to the coroner. There was no doubt of the identity; that wasn’t the reason for the autopsy. But if it wasn’t you, who was it and how did they get your ID?
That is the reason for my headache that started last night and continues today. Thinking too much in the dream.
The side effect of thinking about dead bodies is the dream turned into a cheesy, funny, slasher movie — just like the kind we used to watch together. One person’s head was cut off; someone else lost an arm. A parking garage was involved somehow. Since I dream in technicolor, I could see some of the blood was not ketchup. It was mustard.
Soooooo yeah! Great talking to you. Please let’s do that again soon. Too bad the stuff in the conversation wasn’t real. Good thing the rest wasn’t!
I love and miss you, Danny.