The Dream of Closure

I reach over in the pitch black and flick my lamp on. Bright white light clouds my eyesight and it takes a few seconds to get used to. As my eyes are adjusting I lean over some more, open my drawer, and grab my dream journal and lucky pen.

My dream journal is something I cherish more than life itself, with its leather bound exterior and worn pages inside it has easily become my most prized possession. The reason for this is because I get most of my book ideas from my dreams. I know that may sound silly but in all seriousness I wouldn’t be where I am today without my imagination.

As I finish scribbling down my most recent dream, which is rare because even though most of my inspiration comes from them, I don’t dream too often. 

I then start to turn back the pages to when I first started recording my dreams, when I was seven. All throughout my childhood I had this recurring place that I would visit anytime something big would occur in my life. 

For example I visited the magical place in my dreams for the first time when I was seven. In that dream where I can remember it so vividly, there were almost angelic-like creatures telling me everything will be ok and showing me how to deal with grief in a kid friendly way. It took place in an almost castle-like creation with bright colors, statues, mini waterfalls, and anything else thought possible. Well the next day it turned out my father had died of a heart attack in his sleep.

Every time after that I took note of my dreams, scared yet hoping I could visit that place again. And I did, four more times after that. Once when I was ten and my grandmother passed away, another when I was thirteen and my mom died due to cancer, that was the only one I could sense coming; another when I was fifteen where I got into a car crash with my friends that ended up with both of my friends passing away along with me needing physical therapy for years after that. Yeah it wasn’t a good time in my life. And the last time, aged 16, was when my own little sister took her own life, also not a good time in my life and something I refuse to think about.

I am a forty five year old grown man now and those tragedies still haunt me to this day.

The one interesting thing that I did note is that every time I visited the place it seemed to adapt to my perception of magical like buildings, my sense of a higher place. I usually saw things that I always wished of seeing, tasted things that I always wished of tasting, and being in places I have always wished to be during the time I dreamed it.

With all the tragedy I have gone through in my life ever since my sister took her life I have always thought that nothing more can possibly go wrong in my life. There is no way that god, if there even is a god, would let that many bad things happen to one person within a matter of a lifetime. This much grief is more than enough for three people to deal with, but I got stuck with all of it. 

After never being able to get closure with any deaths of close ones, I have lived my life lonely and pathetic.

After re-reading my dreams I close my journal and put it back into the drawer next to my bed along with my pen. I think that is more than enough re visiting of my life. Also it is three o'clock and I do have an interview at the early hour of seven o clock which means waking up to the blaring sound of my alarm clock at six a.m. 

I turn my insanely bright lamp off and flip over in my covers. I began thinking about everything I re read as I fell asleep to the thoughts swirling through my mind. I don’t even remember when I fell asleep but what I go through next will change me forever.

I wake up laying on the ground of a hallway. I lift myself up and look at my surroundings. I take notice of the gray paint on the walls, seeming familiar, I look down at the red and blue carpet, also scaringly familiar, and then it all clicks when I see the picture frame hanging from the wall. 

It's a picture of me as a child with my father at some beach in San Diego when I was around six. It showcases me sitting on his lap. The picture was taken a few months before he passed away. All the grief I usually felt when seeing pictures of him didn’t seem to be here. For the first time I felt fine! I remember when that photo was taken but wait, why am I in my old house? And how did I get here? I have an interview at seven a.m. so I really need to find a way out of here.

I start walking towards the kitchen to find the time on the stove or microwave but instead as I go to check the time it isn't shown. That's weird I say to myself. Maybe the powers out? But no, the hallway light was left on I realize.

As I was about to step out of the kitchen a picture on the fridge caught my attention. It was of me and my grandmother when I was ten, the young age  when my grandmother was taken from me by “natural causes”. That's the reason the police gave me but for some reason I never believed it. I think the reason I never got on board with that theory is because she was perfectly healthy. We hung out everyday baking, crafting, and given piano lessons; something she was gifted at. However when I look at this picture instead of making up some stupid excuse for her death, I just seemed to accept it? Something I have never been able to bring myself to do before.

 I look away from the picture on the fridge and remember my goal, to find my bedroom in order to escape this seemingly real trip down memory lane.

I am still creeped out as how am I in my old childhood kitchen. However I ignored that as I yawn and came to the conclusion that I need sleep. Maybe when I wake up I will be back in my bed at my nice Brooklyn apartment that I so adore.

With the excitement of sleep entering my mind I happily start walking towards my old bedroom when I hear voices. They are very faint but yes, they are definitely there. I walk slowly, calculated, and quiet to the direction of my bedroom which requires me to go through the hallway again but no, how can this be? 

This hallway I’m walking through is different yet I’m sure I am walking through the same one! I study the now blue painted walls, with new and different picture frames. These frames have shells glued to the outside like a border. I recognize this type of picture frame, as once my mom got cancer and was basically confined home she took up arts and crafts, making anything from figurines made out of popsicle sticks to stuffed animals for the homeless shelter we often volunteered at, to shell picture frames. 

She got cancer when I was thirteen, also the age I was when she passed. And sure enough looking at the picture in the frame is a tired looking version of my mom with me clung to her side smiling but holding back tears. I remember the day that picture was taken was her first day of chemo. And one of her last. She had an awful, violent cancer that took her too fast. I usually can’t even think about her without bursting into tears. I mostly cry about the unfairness of it all, how I wasn’t there to say goodbye, how it took over her entire body and she died in pain. I usually think about her as a cancer patient but instead I think of her as who she was. An amazing mom that helped me through countless things in my life. 

For the first time since she died I am able to think of her without feeling grief. I look back on the incredible things she did for me and others. This feeling is amazing, a feeling I wish I would have been able to feel years ago. But as they say, better now than later. 

I shift my tired eyes from the picture frame and walk straight, hearing the voices become a tad louder with every step. As I step in where I thought would be my bedroom is actually a set of stairs. I switch the stairway light on and walk down on the creaky steps. Halfway down I recall the stairs that don’t make a noise so I skip about every other step until I reach the bottom of the stairs. As I step onto the ground the cold of the tile seeps into my feet. I walk around the wall separating the stairs from the room and scan the basement.

  I recognize the worn leather couches, the frayed yellow and orange carpet with the symbol of a sun, the dart board I spent hours practicing on so maybe one day I could be better than my friend Leo. I never had to worry about beating Layla because she was naturally bad at it, something I relentlessly reminded her of. I take my eyes away from the memory board and see the bookshelf stuffed with countless books I read as a fifteen year old and looked down a shelf and saw all the vhs tapes and video games we would play on the super nintendo. 

I then shift my eyes to the wall next to the couch where a collage of me, Leo, and Layla sit. I walk over while memories of making the collage swirl around my head. I remember one day when it was storming and my two best friends were stuck at my house, with no power we got candles from the random boxes on the other side of the basement, lit them, gathered supplies, and made a collage of our friendship.

It’s weird seeing the artwork on the original basement wall as usually when I did take a look at it it was set on my small kitchen table in my apartment. Usually when I see pictures of them I’m taken back to that night, the night we decided it would be a good idea to get drunk and take Layla's mom's car. We never thought it could end up how it did, with the car flipped on its side. Leo projected ten feet away from the car, blood pooling out of him and Layla, poor Layla. Usually thinking about the fun times I had with them would always lead to that image seared into my brain, the one of Leo across the street and of Layla lying unconscious, blood falling from her head. 

But not this time. When looking at these pictures I think of the fun times I had with them. How nice they were when I moved into town, forced to live with my aunt after any parental guardian I had passed away. They welcomed me into their small group of two with open arms and loving hearts. 

As I began to scan my surroundings once more I somehow ended up in my old bedroom at my aunt's house. However I don't recall walking here, how did I get here? Well to be fair nothing I have experienced tonight has made any sense. As I look around I realize the voices are  louder now. I turn around and look at my old bedroom up and down. I observe my blue and white covers on my bed, my star wars posters lining the wall, my bean bag next to my beloved bookshelf filled with countless comics that I adored. 

Then my eyes fall upon the picture of my sister. My sister that I spent every second with, when I wasn't with my best friends, with her. Matilda was two years younger than me yet acted like she was four years older. She was more mature than anyone I knew, smarter than I could imagine, and the funniest person that has ever been in my life.

I study the picture, it was taken at the worst part of our lives, right after the car accident with Leo and Layla, and when I was still in my wheelchair. It was taken the day I took my first steps after the accident and she wanted to document it. So we got our aunt to snap the picture and Matilda framed it for me for my birthday. I always looked at the picture when I felt overwhelmed and felt like things couldn’t get better. It was a reminder that things can and will always improve.

Whenever I used to think of my sister I would be haunted with the worst tragedy that struck, my sisters suicide. I was never able to get over the night I heard my little cousin scream. I came rushing into Matilda's room with my cousin screaming he just wanted her to read him a bedtime story but instead finding her crumpled lifeless body with an empty pill container layed next to her. Her note said how she couldn’t take any more loss, and that with her depression not getting better she took that as her only way out. Also saying how much she loved and will miss me.

That mental picture taken of her cold dead body usually haunted my thoughts when thinking of her but now, it was relief. I was able to relive all of our most memorable moments with little to no grief clouding my thoughts. I tear my eyes from the picture, happy tears forming around my eyes, when I take notice of the voices. This time the voices are clear and merged into one strong clear voice. 

I look around looking for the source of the voice yet can’t find it.

“I hope you have found what you have been looking for,” the voice states.

I can’t tell the gender of the voice or what they mean. I think about it, “what I've been looking for ''? What can that mean I wonder to myself. 

“You have been through much tragedy in your childhood, more than we see most go through”, the voice boomed.

We? What does that person mean by we? Until it hits me. This is not a person, I am dreaming, and the thing I was looking for was closure! But wait? If I am in one of those dreams what's going to happen now? I don’t have much more to lose, except myself. Before I can continue my thoughts I hear the voice speak again. 

“A big thing in life is experiencing closure when tragic things happen. When the closure is met is when you have really lived life”

What does that mean? I wonder to myself. Yet somehow even though I was thinking it, the voice answered me, well somewhat replied.

“You can get all that you want”

Huh? Now I am super confused, what does that me-

But before I can finish my own thoughts I hear the voices of all my loved ones that I have lost through the door. I open my door and a bright white flashes over me. I can only see white until I step back further into my room to collect myself. 

I think I figured out what’s going on. 

“You can see us again” the voice said gently except this time I'm able to figure out who's speaking, my mom.

I look back towards the door and see through it, I see my father with a huge grin on his face, my grandma with her arm around my healthy mother. I see Leo and Layla standing with my sister waving at me. This is it. This is where I get to see them again. 

I have two options, spend the rest of who knows how long with them, or live the rest of my life with a new acceptance. 

I think of the book I am in the process of writing, my job interview waiting for me, my dog Hugo I have laying in my apartment. All these unfinished projects and life experiences I have waiting before me. 

“Whatever you choose I will always be by your side.” my mother exclaimed.

With that being said I take the brass knob in hand and shut the bedroom door.