Dream Wake

I attended his wake nine nights after he died.

I should have known it was a dream—
no one had a wake or memorial service
or anything last year.
Yet, everyone gathered,
crowded into his ex-wife's house,
not the older first wife, who may be dead herself,
but the second wife,
mother of his children,
cultivator of grudges large and small.
And, not her real house—
this dream house was too clean,
too traditional—it lacked batik wall hangings,
large mason jars of steeping kombucha.
I was uncomfortable, though,
and that rang true.

I was seeking out his children
(my stepchildren, once upon a time)
to make sure I said
your father will always love you,
worried they would forget.
(I still worry they'll forget.)
A stranger, a woman, approached me
and asked if I was related to him.
I said,
I'm his ex-wife.
I did not clarify that I was the third.
She said,
he must still feel connected to you;
he hasn't left your side since you arrived.
Dream Me welcomed this revelation,
though she was feeding me this New Age,
"your two souls were twin flames" vibe.

I woke up then, feeling reassured
and warm from that reassurance,
not yet aware
his ex-wife (yes, the second one again)
would delete his Facebook,
wiping out that vast archive of photographs,
that curated collection of his own best times,
eliminating any opportunity
for accidental self-memorial,
and that after a year of postponements
and cancellations, his family would give up
on holding any service or memorial or wake
in the waking world, where he once lived.

***

Amy L. Fair (she/her), born and raised in West Virginia, makes her home in rural Oregon, where she lives on the native land of the Cow Creek band of the Umpqua tribe. She teaches at a small community college and plans to grow old without any grace whatsoever.