I’ve always had these dreams. One’s in which I was visited by myself, in some past or present form. The first night after I moved out, I had a dream where I walked through nothing till I found my bedroom door. When I opened it, I found my little crying form sitting in my childhood room in the twin bed along the windowed wall, where it still resides, the last item. I hugged her, comforting, telling her that it was all okay, that we got out, and I woke up in tears. Good tears. A few times preceding good news, I was visited by an older woman, who looked like me and too much of my mother. She would just smile, opening her arms, which I would crawl into. It always felt so warm. And I always woke up knowing things would be fine.
Last night I dreamed I was sitting surrounded by chairs, half the circle filled by past versions of me, looking at me with the same sorrow-filled eyes I have been unable to lose as of recent. The other half vacant. The empty seats felt so hollow. I looked at each face, wishing I could offer some serenity, but I couldn’t. So my head fell, and my tears never came.
I miss her smile.
I want to find her again.
I need to