Last night was rough. Revisited by the familiar days of insomnia, I didn't think I would sleep at all, at first. Eventually I did sleep but it was in brief intervals between bouts of tossing and turning. Yes...just like the old days. The thing that made it new and strange was that each time I dozed off, I dreamed of you, George. For the first time since you died, I dreamed of you. Each time I woke, I thought the dream was over, but as weariness called me back into sleep, the story continued as though the Sandman himself had hit some sort of cosmic pause button on his entire realm, so that I wouldn't miss a moment with you. Very kind of him, considering our tumultuous history.
You were dying, baby brother. Only in this world, we all knew it before you were saying your goodbyes in that hospital bed. We knew we were losing you and much like we would have done had we known its magnitude in the waking world, we had already begun to mourn you. This time, Dickie was there...with puffy, wet eyes. We were all rather distraught, really. I mean...you were dying. How could we not be in pain? I guess that's why, in the waking world, you kept the terminal nature of your disease to yourself. We knew you were sick. We just didn't know you were dying...not so soon, anyway.
I wonder why, my gentle giant, you chose the form of your younger and smaller self, last night. Was it to give me distance from the way you looked just before you left us? A sanity-buffer? Perhaps it was simply so I could wrap my arms around you entirely. We knew you were an adult, but didn't seem to question your form. No matter your dream-age, it was so good to hug you. It was so good to see that young face bearing a quiet peace and wisdom that can only come from seeing what comes after. Can'ma has shown me that expression in dreams and now I've seen it on you. You sat quietly, with your hands in your lap, on a metal folding chair and watched us cry over you.
I hope you don't think I'm angry with you for not telling us. I'm not angry. No amount of knowledge or lack thereof would have spared your life and you were so humble. So private. You didn't want to trouble us, I'm sure. I hope you're not mad at me for hurting so much. I'm really doing a lot better than I thought I would. Learning to live with this is going to take a while. I'm sorry, kiddo...I don't think it will ever stop hurting. I'll just have to press on, anyway. I'm being good. I'm letting myself do this so it doesn't just eat me. I listen to your iPod because it keeps you close. I haven't read your writing yet, because I'm not sure I can handle it yet. I'm so proud of you for doing it, though. I remember telling you to write. I didn't think you actually did! When I'm ready, I'll journey to that part of your world. In the meantime, I hope you still visit. Awake or dreaming, either way is good. I don't want to trap you here, I just like it when you're around.
Well, it's late. I need to get some drawing done and go to bed. I'm trying not to get Daryll's cold, but it may be too late for that. I hope you can come to the next art show. You can do that, right? Oh, and something I forgot to tell you when I was hugging you, last night...I'm lactose intolerant. That means no more sour cream. I thought you'd find that amusing. I love you, George.
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