I had the best, saddest dream about you last night

I had the best, saddest dream about you last night

You had shorter hair
You were in town just for the day
I said, please don't go, a year is too long, and cried
Everyone wore holiday garb, dorky seasonal earrings
Susan and Betty were there, and Jim, and Dad and Bro
I knew you would be there,
I felt you when I walked in the door

Earlier in the dream,
I had a Groupon for trees to climb--I guess the company was going under or just starting out; not many purveyors of climbing trees out there (a damn shame in my view).

The man brought a selection; redwoods, birches, trees I'd never seen. They were all taller than my field of vision and all the width of a telephone pole, I was supposed to pick three to climb. They'd planted them all though; they'd take away the ones I didn't want, but I wanted them all, they were growing in a lush green backyard, tall and straight and lovely in a line and I wanted to keep them. I attached a tire swing and you came to the yard and sat by a criss cross fence draped with white flowers and watched me make huge parabolas in the air. We were happy, but we wondered if the trees were too close together, that when they grew, their roots would intertwine and they would strangle each other.

Later, I left the trees and was walking through the city, pushing against a great wind. People were cupping their hands around birds, gathering them to safety indoors so they didn't get blown away, gathering them from ledges on buildings and cafe sun decks. It was slow going and strange, a strange hilly city I've dreamed about before. Dusk was falling, the sidewalks were turning grey. I lifted my feet from the pavement and floated forward, thinking flying might be faster. I knew I had to get home, that you'd be at dinner. It was Thanksgiving, I think. I don't know how I knew you'd come, I just felt it.

Your hair was so much shorter--it was cute, manageable I guess. When you were alive, you always refused to grow it out even though I always wanted you to. Back to your old tricks! I felt your presence like you can feel someone watching you on the back of your neck, and I walked into the dining room, and there you were. I walked across the room and we hugged. Everyone there knew what it meant, that you'd been gone for so long, that this was a reunion. We were sitting at the table, about to start our meal, people saying things they were thankful for, little blessings. Sam said, does anyone want to add something? I looked up and met your eyes, your hair still black, poking out from under your ears in little tufts, your red and white sweater, your broad shoulders and big dark eyes. I thought about how much I missed you, how the time spent not seeing you was a killing time, a reaping of the heart. I thought to myself that I wouldn't see you again until next Thanksgiving, but the pain was the same. I think part of me knew. I looked up at you and said, "Please don't go. A year is too long." And I don't have the heart to miss you.