I used to hate sleeping. I was never that good at it. But as I've gotten older, a good night's sleep looks better and better all the time.
Lately, there's been a bonus: In my dreams, I see my son Harry.
It's been over four months since we lost him; he's been gone about twice as long as he was here.
It's weird. Most of the time, I'm fine, but sometimes, it just hits me, you know? I'm one of "those people" who has dealt with losing a child. That's not really the kind of person I associate with me.
Immature, a little too amused by fart jokes, sure. That's me in a nutshell.
The really odd thing about these dreams is that a lot of the time, I don't remember anything specific. I just wake up with the distinct impression of having talked to him.
It's something, I guess.
The few times I've remembered the dreams, Harry is older; probably about 10. No idea why. He still has the thick mop of hair and wears a shirt with Chewbacca on it. He sits on the branch of a large tree, which, now that I'm picturing it, is a willow, I think.
And we just talk. Not about anything important -- just stuff.
I don't have the dreams as often as I'd like, but it gives me a reason to look forward to sleeping every night.
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