Dreaming of John

A few days ago I dreamt of John, my partner and husband of 18 years, who died 14 years ago next month. John himself didn’t appear until near the end of the dream but was present in other ways throughout.

I was in a space, an outdoor/indoor space, a house or home it felt like with a roof and walls, but with uneven concrete floors and wide and deep puddles and pools of water. I was dozing on a large grey L-shaped sofa under a fluffy blankie; one of my favourite things to do. Looking up I saw a friend put up his ironing board (was it his house or someone else’s? who knows) and begin to iron.

‘I hate ironing’, I said. ‘ John would always do mine when he was alive.’

Laughing my friend replied; ‘Iron John.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s what we used to call him.’

Rising from the sofa I went to look for another friend who I knew would be somewhere in the same space. A friend who was with me when John died and who, afterwards, through the grief that followed, was, and still is, one of my main supporters. I found her at the top of some rough wooden stairs in a shed which had two benches but no tools. On one of the benches sat my friend’s adult daughter and the two of them were deep in conversation. I left them to it and wandered around for a while wading through at least a couple of the deep water pools. In my dream I stayed dry even though my waist was covered.

Bored I mounted the stairs once more but on hearing that the mother-daughter discussion contined I turned to find something else to occupy my time until they were free to talk with me. And there he was, my dear John, at the bottom of the stairs. Wearing a beautiful dark red hand-knitted ribbed jumper he looked as he had the last time I’d seen him looking well. When alive he was almost 11 years older than me. Now dead he’s four years younger than I. How odd.

‘Where did he get that jumper from?’ I wondered. ‘I’ve not seen it before.’

Neither of us spoke but we both smiled as I walked slowly towards him. And then we hugged, tight, close.

And some part of me outside of the dream starts thinking. ‘He feels just the same. What lovely shoulders he has. How wonderful to be able to do this, to touch him again, to smell him again.’

We’re still hugging, our bodies comfortably together, as I wake.