I am someone who remembers dreams and carries them inside me for days, always hoping to unravel their message. They frequently become like a novel I am reading. I can’t put them down.
Last night I dreamed about my mother. She came to me surrounded by a bright light, her face right up into mine. Only instead of her thick shoulder length blond hair that she wore right up until the last weeks before she died, she wore her hair short, very short. And her face was not the tired, lined face I remember. Her skin was smooth and she looked years younger. She glowed. Seriously. In that instant, it struck me that we had traded places. I had the shoulder length blond hair now. She was done with dying while I still had it in front of me. I remember how focused her blue eyes were, but I also knew they were not looking at me. They were looking through me. She was there, but not there. I was there and I ached. I felt stranded in aloneness. They say things are different in heaven. We don’t need to carve up our heart to make sure we have enough to go around. The spaces heal. Our heart becomes whole again. Did an angel cut her hair?