I dreamt that I was attending a wedding, and in the white dress was my friend who was murdered years ago. She was breathtaking, radiant, and tan. She was the way I remembered her, but with that elusive red tint she tried to get in her hair working exactly the way I knew she always wanted it to be.
I dreamt that the cathedral was large and wooden, clearly Catholic but minus a lot of the kneeling it seemed. Along the exposed ship’s ribs of the supports of the vault there were pennants, standards, and flags.
There was a large organ in the far right corner, with long pipes that bellowed the inevitable Mendelsshon’s ‘Wedding March’.
I awoke and, still under the influence of The Brief History of the Dead, I fancied that I had been called, in dreams, to the City of the recently departed, yet still living in the memories of the living, to witness this event.
As I shuffled out of the bedroom, under the weight of this vivid dream, and into my couch, I wondered if it could be. Could the African folklorists have gotten it right, that there is a tripartite division of being. Could it be that those in the City can channel and invite the wandering psyches of the sleepers in, perhaps only as observers?
And, if there is such a City, and it holds cathedrals, then I must certainly wonder if the answers are given at the end, or if the yearning simply gives way to more mystery.