The family sat at a round table in a restaurant’s banquet hall. Conversations were polite, but subdued. Appropriate laughter was allowed, if it engaged the guest of honor.
Wait staff worked the table efficiently. More chairs were brought in for the stragglers.
There was no awkwardness in discussions about the reason for the family gathering.
There was no fear at the thought of my demise. In my dream I was critically ill. Death would come in a matter of weeks or months.
The weirdest part of this dream came this morning after breakfast at a local restaurant.
“Honey, last night I dreamed that the family gathered at a restaurant to honor me–because I had a terminal illness,” I said. “I knew death would soon come, and was at peace with it.”
She hesitated–deep in thought. “Oh, my gosh–that’s very odd. Because, two nights ago, I dreamed you died. I was stunned. Didn’t know what to do. I was reluctant to tell you about it.”
What did this mean? An obvious reference to my own mortality. We’ve been married for thirty-five years this month. Sharing similar dreams is something I’ve never experienced.
Were dream reports of my demise greatly exaggerated? Time will tell. So far today–I’m feeling fine.
I’ve been summoned to rearrange furniture. My demise could be sooner rather than later.
Death stay away–don’t shadow my door today. It’s only muscle aches, nothing more.