This morning before I woke up, I dreamed about my boy, the one I lost. He was about six or seven, the age he would be and he was wiry with a big smile and dark tousled hair. He was sitting on me and we were laughing. I was trying to take photos of him and I was saying that this is why we have so few pictures of him, because he will not hold still. It was a beautiful, happy moment. Then reality began to set in, I suppose I was waking up. It hurts to see him and be with him but they are gifts that I treasure and I’m thankful that he still visits me.
The first time I dreamed about him was at my sister’s house. He was a chubby, blond toddler baby, a wobbly sitter. He was perched in a soft armchair and he was just smiling gazing into my eyes with so much love…the way babies do. In this dream, he was about the same age as he would have been in real life.
In between these dreams, I dreamed that he was a squirrel running across the roof of the house then he was a dark haired, small boy running through the front yard. I remember that Mark and Riona were there and we were all playing together.