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When my eyes close the images come unbidden from deep within my subconscious. My memory floods with the sounds and scents of a lifetime past.
I dream of him, of us, of our life together.
Last night, in my dreams I watched as he frosted a chocolate cake. His tongue poked out in concentration, eyebrows furled, as he smoothed out the icing, meticulously, perfectly.
I still feel the warmth and solidness of him as I encircle him with my arms, holding him from behind. In my half awake state I allow the dream scene to play out in my mind. I watch through my memories as he leans into me, turning, kissing me. I can still taste the chocolate icing on his lips, and I allow the sensory memories to flood through me.
I struggle with the memories sometimes. Was he baking for Sarah's birthday? One of the kids? The context seems hazy. Was he 25 or 45 in my dream? But despite the moment being clear as day, when I try and remember his face, all I see are his eyes surrounded by the crinkle of laughter.
Slowly, again, he fades from my senses. Like every morning, the dream becomes a wispy thing. A memory that I had a dream. But the context becomes clearer, because today is his birthday.
Was his birthday.
My dream self apparently knows this and processes it well before I am actually aware of the fact. I know that today both kids will call me, even though it is not the day they normally call. I will hear from friends I do not regularly see, and we will reminisce. We will talk about times when we were young. We will talk about his happy moments, and remember the things he loved.
I get up and wash my face and brush my teeth. Even now, years later, I get flashes of him throughout the day. They used to be a reminder of loss, but time has changed these flashes from moments of grief to ones of comfort. I don't know when it crossed over. As I put my toothbrush on the charger, the ghost of his toothbrush is next to it.
Does a toothbrush have a ghost?
It makes me smile. He's been gone almost five years now. This is the fifth birthday of his that I will celebrate alone.
Celebrate is not the right word.
I rinse the sink and start the coffee maker. I make some toast, scraping the last of the jam from the jar before rinsing it, and placing it in the recycling bin, and again I am lost in a memory where I am chiding him lightly about the crumbs on the counter while he laughs and places a mug in front of me.
I reach into the cupboard, and my hand gravitates towards his mug. After all the years, we still have them. Well, I still have them.
I smile as I think about Sarah gifting me the “C” mug that matched Nick’s “N” mug. She was my second home. My finger traces the faded N – so faded I need to strain to look. The weight and familiarity of his mug in my hands feels right today.
My phone buzzes. It's our oldest, Maddie, in the group text.
“Dad, are you going to see Papa today?”
She is always the responsible, reliable one. Her brother instead a scattered chaotic whirlwind behind her. So different.
I sip on the coffee from his mug as I type out a reply.
“I was thinking of going around 7 if you two would like to join me.”
She writes back something about the kids’ basketball practice and shuffling drivers for the carpool, but says she will be there.
Jack just likes the text, but doesn't type anything in response. But he will be there.
The day itself is ordinary in its extraordinary avoidance. I do the crossword puzzle, watch some news, read a book, and speak with numerous people. I work on my calendar, scheduling grandchildren’s basketball games and school plays. I do a few hours of copy editing as a favour for a friend despite my retired status.
The day draws to a close though, and I again face my evening plans. I purchase a small pot of mums, the bright orange blooms just beginning to peek from their buds, and in a flash of inspiration taken from this morning's dream I stop at the bakery next door and pick up a small chocolate cake.
Jack and Maddie are already there when I arrive, sitting on the stone bench, near his final resting place. I place the mums near his plaque, and for a moment there is just silence.
Maddie, the quiet one, is the one to break the silence first.
“Those flowers are nice dad. He really loved orange didn't he?”
I smile and start telling them about his obnoxious orange shirt he wore back when I first met him. And then I tell the kids for what must be the millionth repetition, about the time he was wearing that shirt and ran into the sea with his shoes on.
The silence broken, suddenly we are all sharing our favorite memories, eating chocolate cake straight from the box with flimsy disposable forks, laughing.
The cake doesn't hold a candle to the memory of the one in my dreams, but here in this moment I am happy.
Before long it will be time for us to part ways. The kids will go back to their hectic lives of work, and spouses and children, and I will head back to my quiet one. Not lonely, because life is and always was full. But quiet. And tonight, like every night, I will make myself a cup of tea, turn down my sheets, and slip into my side of the bed. And as my eyes close, I will think again about sleep.
Because when I sleep, I dream, and when I dream it is us once again.