I dreamed of an event;
filled with a melange of folk, old and young;
Sometimes it was a dance party, otherwise a theatric performance; sometimes it was just delightful and cultured chaos.
The night was coming to an end and he approached me;
“What is it you fear child?”
The older man with the crows feet and thick viking accent asked.
“I fear a life wasted and unremembered, and a death equally so. I fear failure; and the foreboding shadow of “too late”
The whole event he had been very jovial; like a favourite -perhaps often moderately drunk- uncle. Sometimes I could barely tell if he was human or some other type of playful animal. Now though there was nothing but certitude and wisdom in his intense stare; one that beamed with a sobriety I had never even fathomed.
He gently took my index finger and concentrated intently on it; reading it.
He rested in the place between words for what seemed like an eternity and then abruptly let out a heavy breathe.
‘Your life’s, and then your death’s gifts will come and go like the tides; but if it is a death without memorial you dread; you have nothing to fear.
Your debts to this world will be paid in full; you are now and will be loved until you are forgotten.
Death – when it is time – will be your last gift to this world.”
With tears I squeeze his hand in gratitude; hard. Swiftly then I wake up; with words in mind and pillow slightly dampened.