Last night, I had the most peculiar dream. So strange, in fact, it woke me up and kept me awake for the longest time. I’m so haunted by it now that I’m writing about it at 9:45 on a Saturday morning (when I should be revising my 6,000 word draft of my story due for my Masters on Thursday).
I walked into the hall, wearing a dinner suit, or maybe even a tuxedo. The hall was that contemporary neo-Tudor style — wood beams stained dark, lead-light windows, whitewash ceilings — and my paternal aunts and uncles were standing there in the middle of the cobblestone floor. With them stood a fair-haired man in a tuxedo himself.
I felt it was strange, getting married. That was the thought that popped into my mind. When and where did I meet him? Who was he? How did this all happen?
Where was everyone else? My parents? My brothers, my sisters-in-law, their families? My friends? My maternal relatives? My cousins?
My soon-to-be husband turned around. And it was my cousin Greg.
As you may have read earlier, my cousin Greg (related on my maternal side) died about a decade ago. I had a bit of guilt around his death, but I won’t segue into that here. I feel like I need to get my words out.
No, he was alive and healthy. Greg looked so happy, so whole. When he smiled, it was genuine; his face had wrinkles where they would have them if he’d lived to 48. But most of all, he seemed pleased to see me. He took my hand in his, and there was such strength, such care, such compassion flowing from his hand to mine. I felt safe. I felt secure. I felt cared for.
The thoughts assaulted me. He’s your cousin. Why are you marrying your cousin? He died a decade ago. Why is he alive? Why does he look like he’s aged to the correct age? I disappointed him once, months before he died. If I don’t want to go through with this, will I disappoint him again? Didn’t I learn the lesson the first time?
Were our family horrified by us getting married and that’s why they weren’t here? He didn’t seem to care. He was happy. Why should I care? But I did care.
These thoughts and questions started getting more pointed. I didn’t even know his favorite color. Shouldn’t I know his favorite color? Thinking about it, did I know anyone’s favorite color? How important is a favorite color in the grand scheme of things?
He turned to me and smiled. He squeezed my hand. He told me to relax. He kissed me on the cheek. It wasn’t anything sexual, and I didn’t feel those feelings towards him. Weirdly, this felt like an arranged marriage of sorts, or a marriage of convenience, and part of me wondered why all of this was taking place at all?
My aunts and uncles just looked at us.
The rational part of my mind, which often can be active in my dreams, tried to wake me up. Greg’s dead. He died years ago. What does this dream mean? This type of dream is well outside your wheelhouse and isn’t your stock-standard dream. What is the symbolism? Is there a deeper meaning? Is it Greg’s soul coming back to tell you something (like he had before)? Wake up. Wake up!
I laid there and stared at the inky darkness, not really able to make out many shapes at all. And I pondered, as one does in the middle of the night after an intense dream, what it all meant.
Was Greg okay? He seemed so happy. He seemed so alive, so full of vigour.
What did the dream mean? Could it be as simple as I’ve been working so hard on my novel, which is also about the loss of a loved family member, worming away in my mind? Or is there something more serious there? Was he trying to communicate something to me? Was he trying to reassure me that the people I love will be waiting for me on the other side? Or was there some other meaning I’m yet to discover or might never understand?
These are the questions plaguing me right now. These are the scenarios prodding me. This is the dream that’s haunting me right now.
Beam Me Up, Scotty 
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