I’m on the east coast for a week – Charlottesville for work, then Harrisonburg, then DC. Hurricane Sandy blew the color off of the trees, but otherwise did very little where I am apart from lulling me to sleep with persistent rain last night.
And then, sometime in the middle of the night, between the storm breaking and the sun rising behind the clouds and the mist, I woke from a dream of my grandpa, a dream so vivid that when I woke from my dead sleep, it was with tears in my eyes and a sob caught in my throat. I don’t believe in ghosts, or in the interpretation of dreams, but this one was so real that I have tears in my eyes just remembering it.
I’m tired, drained of all enthusiasm, ready to hibernate for the winter, or at least until responsibility and obligation drag me out of my too comfortable bed in the sweet Airbnb space I’m renting. I wonder who will visit me in my sleep tonight.
latterdaybohemian 
There is something about dreams that makes them so haunting and intense, but hard to put into words. My mother still dreams about her father fairly often, even though he died in ’92. She dreamed once that her parents came to her and told her they were finally getting a divorce. She woke up and felt such a sense of peace and closure b/c their marriage had been such an unhappy one and divorce is something they just didn’t see as a possible while they were alive.
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I didn’t believe in ghosts until I figured out that they are shadows in our own hearts.
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