I See Dead People. Or Something.
Hooo-kay.
Well, then.
I suppose it shouldn't surprise me, given the season. I dreamed about Nanny last night.
I walked into the den at her house. She was there, sitting on the couch like always. The air was very still, the light from the sliding door pale and oblique. She seemed to fill the entire room - not with a loving sense of her presence or anything like that, simply . . . an utter focus, like being in a room with a sleeping person. The room was empty but for her.
"Nanny."
"Yes."
"But you're dead."
"Yes."
There followed a long silence. I was not certain whether I slept or woke - neither felt real. I didn't come any closer.
"But . . . isn't it horrible being dead? Do you like it?"
"No."
"So, it's not so awful?"
"No."
"You're not scared of it?"
"No."
Overwhelmed with strangeness, I awoke clearheaded and completely untroubled.
Only those that knew her would understand how extraordinarily unlike her this was. She was, in life, a fluttering, fussy person who would hold you down and force Southern hospitality down your throat until you choked on it. She could never say anything monosyllabically, and required at least five minutes and three digressions to answer even the most direct question. I don't think, in twenty-seven years, I heard her say simply "Yes" or "No."
How very strange.
Well, then.
I suppose it shouldn't surprise me, given the season. I dreamed about Nanny last night.
I walked into the den at her house. She was there, sitting on the couch like always. The air was very still, the light from the sliding door pale and oblique. She seemed to fill the entire room - not with a loving sense of her presence or anything like that, simply . . . an utter focus, like being in a room with a sleeping person. The room was empty but for her.
"Nanny."
"Yes."
"But you're dead."
"Yes."
There followed a long silence. I was not certain whether I slept or woke - neither felt real. I didn't come any closer.
"But . . . isn't it horrible being dead? Do you like it?"
"No."
"So, it's not so awful?"
"No."
"You're not scared of it?"
"No."
Overwhelmed with strangeness, I awoke clearheaded and completely untroubled.
Only those that knew her would understand how extraordinarily unlike her this was. She was, in life, a fluttering, fussy person who would hold you down and force Southern hospitality down your throat until you choked on it. She could never say anything monosyllabically, and required at least five minutes and three digressions to answer even the most direct question. I don't think, in twenty-seven years, I heard her say simply "Yes" or "No."
How very strange.