This morning, in the last dream of my night, I was visiting with Auntie Esther, now deceased, in her bedroom. She was very old, very ill, very magical, and maybe a little crazed.
Snuggled up in her bed, in a nest of blankets and pillows, she was surrounded by shelves and cabinets of little objects. Little treasures. Tiny things. Some religious, some playful, some fanciful. They formed the walls of her aged existence.
She got out of bed, came across the room to hug me then said, “Put me back to bed, can’t you tell I’m dying?” I picked her up in my arms and carried her back, laid her down, and tucked her in.
She gave me a rough tree-branch pointed stick and told me it was magic and would help. That I should try to carry it with me in my sock. (Dreams don’t always make sense do they?)
We talked some more and without my saying so, she knew that I wanted to have all of her small objects just as they were arranged, just as they existed for her. She smiled and said I could have them. I asked if I shouldn’t first check with her daughter.
Her response was, “When something comes up in life, be true to it for just one minute, then get on with expressing the rest of your life.”
I woke up with tears in my eyes.
Auntie Esther (RIP September 17, 2004)