A couple nights ago, I dreamed.
And it was a strange dream (obvs, since I remembered it, right?) ... In it, I was at my mom's house-but-not ... and we were doing laundry. LOTS of laundry [Art imitates life imitating art, yes?].
And ... well, we needed to get a sweater washed and dried. For my friend's brother. Because he was sick. Like bad cold/fevered/stuck in bed shivering-type sick.
In real life, he was murdered back in 2007. Both the boys who killed him are in prison (sentenced for life, but up for parole after 25 years ... so, in another 15-16 years or so).
But, in my dream, he was alive.
I wasn't the closest of friends with him.
He was the first guy (besides one of the sons of a lady who watched me when I was little ... and he doesn't count) to ask me out.
I was too young ... and I knew that it wouldn't be fair to date someone I wasn't really into (Should have remembered THAT when I started dating my first boyfriend. But, well, that would have been SMART. And I wasn't really being super-intelligent right then. *sigh*).
I mean, if I had been his girlfriend, I'd have gotten a nice macaroni necklace ...
Again, not a good enough reason to be someone's junior-high girlfriend.
The worst thing about living is outliving other people.
Especially people who go so early.
I mean, I know that there are reasons ... reasons we don't understand ... and that by enduring these things, we learn and grow and all ...
... but it doesn't make it any less sucky, really.
His poor family, though. They took it really hard. Not that I can blame them. There were only the four of them ... and Kevin disappeared ... and was found murdered.
He and his sister, my friend, were quite close ... so it was even more devastating.
I remember when he went missing. She called (she was stationed out of state) ... and she was pretty panicked. I did my best to calm her down ... and I hoped and prayed that maybe he was just being horribly irresponsible and just headed off to Vegas or something on a wild hair and just forgot to call anyone ...
... That would have been a million times better, really. His cat would have forgiven him. So would the rest of us. Because doing something selfish and a little stupid would have been so much better.
But, yeah. So, he was in my dream. And I was scuttling about, trying to help find that sweater ... or to get it washed and dried if it wasn't already.
... It's strange to think of how many people from my high school that I've outlived. Since I'm not horribly old. Yet.
But, at the same time, it's ... sad ... to know of so many people who've been murdered, who've committed suicide, or who died in car crashes.
I suppose it's not too surprising that I think about these things ... since (1) I'm kinda morbid anyways and [evidence: fan of The Walking Dead, reads Stephen King, enjoys creepypasta, etc.] (2) we did just get through Halloween and Dia de los Muertos.
I remember reading an article about how we keep the dead with us ... how we think of them and remember them ... so that they are still around, still affecting us ... It's a comforting thought.
And there's another article I read about how we keep memorials and objects to remind us of those who've passed ... like how I have a lot of my Grandma's books and jewelry ... and how I treasure some of the jewelry that my mom's stepmom passed on to me as presents from her collection before she passed. Or how I have a journal of my Pop-pop (and, apparently, journaling skills ... or, really, the lack thereof, IS a family trait. :P) ... and how I find it very hard to part with things that folks give me after they're no longer around (like a pull-up bar that Michael's grandfolks gave us. We don't use it often ... but I hate the idea of not having is because it was Grandpa C's).
And here I am, surrounded by clutter (of my own devising ... well, with some help from the munchkin-brigade. LOTS of help from the munchkin-brigade) and half-sick of shadows.
Still, I really don't like losing people. Not only temporarily ... and I know that death is just this temporary thing. But I still dislike that separation.
There are times when I miss my Grandma or Pop-pop or Grandpa C so hard that it feels like a blow to the gut ... and I'd give just about anything to be able to hear their voices and have a conversation with them again.
I don't know why I take this separation so dang hard ... you'd think I had abandonment issues or something (which would explain that ... but I don't really have anything to pin that on, besides my parents' not-very-messy divorce. Truly, my childhood was pretty idyllic).
I don't know how much or how often those have passed get to observe the living ... but, sometimes, I'll chat a little at Pop-pop or Grandma D or a friend who've passed. I'm sure they don't mind that I remember them and are thinking of them and miss them bunches.
If they talk back, I don't really hear it. But it comforts me ... and that's reason enough, right?
Cheaper and less harmful than drugs.
Yeah, you usually don't get such an introspective and maudlin post from me, the queen of levity ... but, well, there you go.