dreams and grief mornings

but i wasn't done dreaming yet

Good morning my beautiful angels.

Like the title of this newsletter says - this morning was a grief morning. And a grief morning is when you wake up from a dream of someone who has passed. And you lie in bed, wondering what was real, and what was just a product of your imagination. The ceiling that I’m staring at, the pillow that my head is lying on - is this real, am I back in my human body?

But I wasn’t done dreaming yet. I send out a silent plea to the universe.

I wasn’t done dreaming.

We were lost in a bookstore. Rows and rows and rows of books. Of colourful books, and beautiful people. I guess I had told her about how I’m writing a journal with prompts about falling in love. “You Made Me A Poet”. I’ve decided to call it.

So we were running around the bookstore looking for it. The cover was pink and had a photograph of a giant rose, with big, bold, gold lettering on the top and bottom of the cover.

She was young in the dream. Maybe my age, with long, curly, brown hair.

Beautiful, radiant, and glowing.

We find the book.

“I just can’t believe I won’t ever see you again.” I say to her before I wake. But she was sad, too. I could feel it. 

So I stayed in bed this morning for an extra hour. I let a few tears fall down. I wasn’t expecting them to come out so easily, but they did. And they kept falling and falling and falling for the next little while. 

I ended up getting out of bed at 9, and heating up milk on the stove to make a latte. I put 3 tablespoons of coffee grounds into the yellow Moka pot.

No more antibiotics for today. Instead, I took a probiotic. 2 rosehip supplements. And a vitamin D tablet. 

I put on Ariana’s ghostin, opened my laptop, and wrote down Monday’s to-do list. But I realized all of the tasks looked a little too daunting for a morning like today.

And insignificant.

-

I started my first writing group back in 2022. It was nearing the end of my first Roman escapade. I had no idea what would come out of them. I had no idea I was going to continually run them, I had no idea people would be genuinely interested. I put together a list of things that I liked to write about. Words to my younger self, words to lovers. The healing power of songs. Signs and synchronicities from the universe.

5 seemed like the perfect number to me. 5 writing assignments. 5 members. A large enough group to learn from each other, but a small enough group to share with each other.

In my first group was an old friend from high school, my spiritual healer, my very good Roman friend, and two, relatively new, Internet friends and newsletter readers. We all agreed that there was some sort of divinity at play. Most of us were Geminis, or had some strong Gemini placement in our birth charts. We were all deep thinkers and deep feelers. Everyone jumped at the chance to be vulnerable, to share stories of love. Of heartbreak. Of unrequited love. Of grieving.

Grieving those who have left us, and grieving those dreams of what could have been.

Now, almost two years later, I am FaceTiming with one of the girls from that first group. One of my first Internet friends.

“So how do you feel about him now?” She asks me.

Angels in the form of strangers. And how those who once were strangers, have now become just as invested in this love story as you are. 

I pause, sigh, and smile.

“I’m at peace. With everything. Really. But - I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still think about him everyday.”

“It’s always the what if, isn’t it?”

-

What if, I didn’t have to spend the last seven years without a mother? 

What if, she could come over and make me an Orange Pekoe when I was sick? 

What if, when I’m struggling with a difficult client at work, I could call her for diplomatic advice? Financial advice? Life advice? Any advice, really.

What if, she could immediately fly to Rome to help wipe away my tears, or to take me shopping to fix a broken heart? 

What if. I repeat to myself. What if. What if. What if.

And I can’t help but say the following words out loud:

“What if? I think my life would be a lot easier.”

-

I strip the sheets from my bed. I throw them into the laundry basket and replace the pink ones with a fresh pair of soft grey.

I sit on the mattress in my bathrobe and wrap it a bit tighter around my body. I wait to put the duvet back on. I stare at the propped up pillows. And I always think of those afternoons. Of his forehead against mine, and how long we looked at each other after. 

“Jesus.” He would whisper. 

And for the first time in my life, I can’t formulate a sentence. Or a thought.

Am I really here? I wonder. I can see the bedroom ceiling. I can feel the pillow underneath my head.

Picking up on my silence, he adds: “But in a good way.”

I laugh. “Thank you for clarifying.” I’m back in my body again. 

He looks relieved and smiles. He kisses me again. And again. And again. 

But I’m not done dreaming yet. I plea with the universe.

I’m not done dreaming.