the dreamer

He called her “the dreamer” because she came to him in his dreams and told him things about the world that had long been forgotten, but never disappeared.

“Forgetting doesn’t make something go away,” he’d say, and I could never figure out if those were her words or his. Someone more rational than me would probably say it didn’t matter, that dreams were the product of the subconscious mind, and all her words were his whether he acknowledged it or not. He called people like that “the blind ones.” He’d retreat into his notebook every time he encountered one to draw sketches of his dreams and the world around him would be forgotten, it’d all but disappear when he’d lock himself inside his head.

Sometimes he’d show his book to me, excitedly telling me about his dreams. The images are still there, burned into my mind, beautiful drawings of her and the places and things she’d shown him.

“The Sea of Souls,” is the one that stood out in my mind as I stood over his grave, my hands caked with dirt. It was what he would’ve wanted, a tree like the ones in his picture of the beautiful forest that grew from the graves of the dead.

“It’s called the Sea of Souls because it’s always windy, and when you stand in the center and close your eyes the wind coming through the trees sounds just like the ocean,” He said.

"So what about the souls then?” I asked, and he laughed as if I said something absurd.

"Well if you plant a tree over a grave the roots grow deep down into the body of the dead pulling their soul up like water. And if you do it quickly enough, before their soul leaves, it becomes part of the tree and they live on inside. Sometimes if you listen hard enough, past the sound of the wind, you can hear the dead speak in the rustling of the leaves. It’s only a whisper so you have to listen hard, but they say so much if you just give them the chance.” He went back to his notebook after that, all hunched over in his own world, but I never forgot the conversation; like the picture it stayed burned in my mind.

“I know you can’t hear me or maybe you can,” I whispered “but I planted a tree just like the ones in your book.” I closed my eyes and heard nothing but the wind, so strong it sounded like the tide coming in.



That night I closed my eyes and woke up somewhere I’d never been. And I heard it before I opened my eyes, that sound like the tide coming in, rustling the leaves all around me.

I knew what was waiting before I opened my eyes, the trees her drew, exactly the way I remembered them.

I jumped up so quickly I almost crushed the sapling in the ground beside me. Almost saying “Sorry Daniel,” but then I laughed at how odd that would’ve been to say. By the time I realized it didn’t matter the opportunity had passed, so I said nothing.

I closed my eyes and listened, the way dreamers do, for his voice traveling through the leaves. At first there was only rustling, I was discouraged, but I listened harder. Just under the rustling a wave of voices rushed past my ears, sending chills down my spine. Too many all saying everything they ever needed to all at once.

I woke up in my bed, cold sweat, with my sheet stuck to my chest.

Heart pounding struggling to breathe.

The sounds of cars rushing past the window made me feel sick, and I ran my hand against the wall feeling for the light switch; in the same place as it always was, my hand just couldn’t find it.

Banging into…something, on my way to the bathroom.


I puked in the sink, just a little too late to make it to the toilet. I let the water run over my wrists as I rinsed the bile down the drain, trying to clear my head.

But the dream wouldn’t go away.

"It’s nothing,” I said to the air around me, and only got silence in return.