My father the king was god, my father
the king is dead; he and his chariot
lost on twilit shores of unhappy isles.
When I was young, I walked the wind-graven
standing stones that point out the swordbelt of
Orion, the dusky unwinking eye
of Mars; into the lith, a dagger carved,
the sign of dead…
The lingering weight in your chest after a heartbreaking dream seems to bring you no closer to remembering what the dream was - who was in it, what happened, why you woke with this unexplainable pressing hand. Sometimes dreams are simply forgotten upon waking. Now I recall a reconciliation of some kind, yet the faces are still unclear. There were lights pouring out of a house’s windows onto newly accumulated snow, yet the house is only vaguely familiar. I was invited inside and given a hot drink. I removed my coat and scarf and hung them on the back of a chair. Other things happened, and I woke up with this weight, struggling to breathe for a few moments. Sometimes, to remember a dream, fabricating details can help lead you to what actually happened; you can say to yourself, “Wait, this isn’t how it went,” and eventually piece the dream together in a way that makes sense and is (sometimes) completely truthful. What I know for a fact is that there was a one-sided reconciliation, an unaccepted apology somewhere, because why else wouldn’t I wake up with a sense of relief? It used to be that every single dream I had was a nightmare. For years and years, up until a year and a half ago. I remember the night the nightmares stopped was when I thought I’d never felt more ashamed of a decision I’d made. I’ve had less than a scattering handful of nightmares since, but not nearly as awful as the ones I used to have; those I would remember the next day with the utmost clarity and the least amount of time piecing together. The dream I had last night, it’s safe to say, was somewhere in the middle, and even if I can’t remember exactly what it was, I’m grateful.