This morning I logged onto Postsecret for my monday morning ritual (although sometimes, I do struggle to resist the urge on Sundays). This first postcard stopped me, floored me and brought me to tears. Whoever posted that couldn’t have known that they were sending it to me, but they did regardless.

A Dream.
There are some days where I forget the sorrows hidden in my heart for a time. But the last few days have seen me on a slippery slope back to the grief of losing my longtime passion. Life still seems a bit senseless and even though I know that grieving takes time.. I’m guilty of trying to move too fast and keep up with everyone else who is moving on.

So I dreamed last night and I think it stands out as a dream that means more than what it’s letting on.

We were at a house, not just my friends but their families too. A big summer house with wide open windows that surveyed the gardens, all the way down to the river and the enormous tree within it. There was sunshine and goodness everywhere. Then a silver car drove past, an old style eighties cadillac with an old woman in it. She stopped the car, hung out the window and began screaming at us. She was yelling at the people next to me, and then she pulled out a gun, a big gleaming silver .45. She began shooting..

One person passing by fell in a heap, dead by the car. Another two people next to me, who I didn’t know fell as well. Another two shots missed, and then her final shot hit me in the side of the head, a glancing blow.

The bullet stuck, and I began to bleed. People rushed out to attend to the fallen. The woman in the car drove off. But no one saw I was bleeding. I went to the mirror and saw the bruise growing over my eye, and the blackened streak on my temple, the bullet, having struck bone, stopped in it’s tracks.

Eventually, amid protests, they finally called the police and ambulance, but nothing could be done for the fallen. I desperately tried to get help for my head, the swelling and pain overwhelming. The faces turned blank from friends to unknown. There was such an awful ache in my heart I could barely stand it.

After an age, I thought that I had run out of tears, my friend came to me. He saw the wound to my head that no one else had seen. His eyes reflected some of my pain and his own urgency. He examined every part of the wound and laid me down onto the grass of the valley. He placed himself beside me, cradling my head and told me he would take the bullet out.

I was terrified, but he asked me to trust him and that it had to be done. I, looking at him with fear and trembling, placed my whole life into his hands willingly and he removed the bullet. He pressed his hand to my head to stop the bleeding and spoke low, soft words of encouragement and hope to me.

My pain didn’t disappear, but it was shared for a moment. And then with surprise in his eyes, as well as mine, I died anyway.