Dreaming...

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?