Sometimes in My Dreams

Sometimes in My Dreams by Redneck Diva


We were in the church fellowship hall when I saw you across the room, skinny as ever in your blue jeans and button-down shirt. I don’t think I ever, in my entire life, saw you in a t-shirt. That thought just occurred to me, I don’t know why. Now, as I grew older I noticed you switched from cowboy hats to baseball caps, but you never made the transition to a t-shirt. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen any of the old farmers from the neighborhood in t-shirts. Perhaps it's a farmer faux pas.

But there you were, visiting with a church member, one of the older ladies of your generation. I guess you could call her one of your Sunday School cronies. You were listening intently with your head kind of tilted forward like you were really trying to absorb what she was trying to say. I have that picture of you in my head still – when you were in conversation, you tipped your head toward the other person. Maybe you were a little hard of hearing or maybe you really were just paying attention, I’m not sure. Regardless, it was an endearing trait on you. All of the sudden, as I watched you from across the room, you laughed out loud and there is no way I could ever effectively describe in words what you looked like when you were really amused by something. For one thing, your mouth opened really wide, in a “HA!” kind of manner, like whatever was said, either by you or the other person, was the most hilarious and comical thing ever uttered. I seriously doubt it was a limerick - that didn't seem like your style. It might’ve been a funny story from your farming days, maybe a calf on a freak-out tear in the milk barn. It might’ve been a joke or maybe she was just teasing you, but whatever it was, you were amused from head to toe. If you were going to make the effort to get tickled about something, you went all the way with it. I loved that about you.

You patted the lady on the arm and moved on to visit with some other church member, this time a man. A firm handshake is something lost on newer generations, but it was a serious thing back in your day. You shook the man’s hand firmly and I watched as the two of you talked. Even though I couldn’t hear a word of the conversation, I’m pretty sure it was about politics and how the country’s going to go to hell in a handbasket if the Republicans have anything to do with it. I'd heard enough scathingly vehement comments about it and I would just about bet that was the topic of conversation. I leaned on the counter top, my chin in my hand, and watched you with a grin on my face. Politics aren’t of much interest to me, but I couldn’t have cared less if you were talking about Republicans, the price of wheat or what the almanac was predicting for the summer – just watching you was enough.

About that time, Sam caught sight of you and took off in a run. I started to yell at him not to run in church, but decided not to. I’d run to you, too, if I could, but it seemed I was stuck behind the counter. I knew what he was going to do – he wanted to show you his Easter basket which was chock full of colored eggs and candy. You greeted him just like you always greeted the great-grandkids, “Heyyyy! How’s my baby?” and then leaned down to have a look at his basket. He looked up at you and nodded at something you asked and my heart actually ached. You put your hand on his shoulder and the two of you started to walk toward me. Sam grinned and you looked down at him, then back up at me. I had been leaning on the counter top, but stood up as the two of you approached, ready for my own conversation with you. I wanted my turn. You stopped short of where I was and I was dumbfounded as to why. You stooped down to talk to Sam again, then stood and started to speak to me. I felt so excited to have the opportunity to talk to you one more time.

But I opened my eyes and the tears on my pillow taunted me, reminding me that you’re still gone.