Late last night I went out under the moon to pour a dish of wine to the Beloved Dead of my blood and of my line.
Last night I dreamed of the Beloved Dead. Moving amongst us, unseen by most everyone, but brisk about their business.
In my dream, my son and sister and I were in a school cafeteria, and my son was uncomfortable because of all the unseen folks. “Of course we can leave,” I said. “It’s very busy in here.”
He quickly got his bearings, and later we made small talk with the Dead Ones. Nothing of great import, just exchanging smiles and pleasantries as we passed each other in the hallway. We reached to touch one another.
This morning, I told my husband and son, “I dreamed of dead people last night.”
“I did too,” my son said. “My friend was dead, but he didn’t know it and wanted to turn in his homework, so I was like a medium and did it for him. There were other dead people around; some kids, some adults. You could tell them apart because they were blue.”