Dreaming About The Moonshot: Resistance Is Futile
It's been nearly three weeks since Mom passed away, a remarkable fact considering how immediate it all still feels. A day doesn't go by that I don't attempt to process her last day on earth: the music selections from my Kindle, the curiously upbeat consultations with the young doctor that was on call, the "respiratory therapist" who came in to adjust the water bottle attached to her air supply and who pointed out, in passing, that condensation was dripping on the floor next to the wall. A lot of things are brightly etched in my memory, but, none more than the actual phone call from Sis just as I had gotten into bed for the night. Should I have been there when it happened? Did I leave the hospital too soon?
All of this has conspired to push Crosby's moonshot to the furthest perimeters of my conscious mind. He will be on American soil at some point this week and I have scarcely had time to appreciate how much he has been missed. We had a brief e-mail exchange just before the weekend, but, all it did was further remind me that after this week, Crosby will no longer be a captive audience; after the moonshot, he takes his vaunted ability to merge into his immediate environment to California.
I thought Mom's death had inoculated me against any feelings not already locked up in that final phone call. But, I was wrong. This morning, I woke up a trifle late, usually a good sign that I had been dreaming. At first, all I could remember was that it had something to do with food. And shopping. Shopping for food, perhaps? Then, as I headed into the shower, I had a vivid reminder that it had been a Crosby dream.
It was a post-Camino dream. Crosby had just returned from Africa and was visiting me in Brooklyn. He seemed strangely unmoored from the Upper West Side. In fact, St. Michael's hardly factored into the dream at all. Crosby had made the trip to Brooklyn specifically to get in touch with me and to arrange going out to dinner. He seemed fairly enthusiastic about it and we even discussed the possibility of having dinner at home in my apartment. I think that was when a shopping spree to Costco might have ensued, but, I'm uncharacteristically vague on the details.
All of this has conspired to push Crosby's moonshot to the furthest perimeters of my conscious mind. He will be on American soil at some point this week and I have scarcely had time to appreciate how much he has been missed. We had a brief e-mail exchange just before the weekend, but, all it did was further remind me that after this week, Crosby will no longer be a captive audience; after the moonshot, he takes his vaunted ability to merge into his immediate environment to California.
I thought Mom's death had inoculated me against any feelings not already locked up in that final phone call. But, I was wrong. This morning, I woke up a trifle late, usually a good sign that I had been dreaming. At first, all I could remember was that it had something to do with food. And shopping. Shopping for food, perhaps? Then, as I headed into the shower, I had a vivid reminder that it had been a Crosby dream.
It was a post-Camino dream. Crosby had just returned from Africa and was visiting me in Brooklyn. He seemed strangely unmoored from the Upper West Side. In fact, St. Michael's hardly factored into the dream at all. Crosby had made the trip to Brooklyn specifically to get in touch with me and to arrange going out to dinner. He seemed fairly enthusiastic about it and we even discussed the possibility of having dinner at home in my apartment. I think that was when a shopping spree to Costco might have ensued, but, I'm uncharacteristically vague on the details.