[unlikely sojourn]


I was dozing on the day bed when he walked into the room.

All I could do was gape.

His smile was warm and contagious. He chuckled as I stared, and I remembered how I loved the way the humor always sparkled in his eyes. He looked at me as if nothing was wrong. As if nothing had changed. The long-sleeved red shirt he was wearing really complimented his complexion. His jeans were slightly faded and not too snug, with a hint of black shoe peeking from beneath. His hair was neatly combed with a slight receding hairline. Everything was just as I remembered.

And yet, all I could do was gape. Gape at the impossible.

I looked to my mother for reassurance, for support. Was I dreaming? I asked her to pinch me to prove I was awake. She laughed and did so.

Nothing changed. He was still there, sitting on the couch, smiling at me. His eyes were vibrant behind his glasses, and his teeth a perfect white. I blinked and stared. What could I say? The experience was real and surreal, terrifying and wonderful twisted into a knot.

And impossible. Completely impossible. I think I cried then. In fact, I'm sure I did.

He was speaking, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. All I wanted to do was wrap my arms around him and tell him how much I missed him. But I couldn't. I was frozen. And his words were still incomprehensible. I think my mother understood him, and that frightened me more than you can imagine. I made her leave the room. The light was fading more quickly than it should've. I wanted to touch him, make sure he was real. But I didn't. I just stared.

I stared because he wasn't there. It was real. As real as a waking dream can be. But he wasn't there. He was not there. Because dead men don't rise again, not in the world as we know it.

(In memory of Cal - I never got to say goodbye.)