On the Melancholy of Waking

I dreamt of Cooper last night and all day I carried with me the melancholy of waking.

The dream was confusing—I still can’t make sense of it. I’d gone to the office at school to pick up something I’d printed. From a distance, I saw a shock of burnt sienna waves curling around a grungy tan cap. The sight took my breath away. I’m not a gaspy person, but I gasped. When the person turned around, it was Cooper. He walked toward me and made eye contact, but I was so afraid of making him vanish, I didn’t wrap him in the hug I’m saving for heaven. Instead, I passed him a backpack and said, “Here.”

So bizarre.

Seeing someone who, in some way, resembles Cooper isn’t unusual. It may be the build or the walk or the clothes or the beautiful hair, but it happens and that minuscule flash of forgetting takes my breath away. It’s the next part of the dream—the part where our paths cross, we are both aware, and I . . . give him a backpack—that has me puzzled. Ultimately, I’m grateful for any good Cooper dreams, even if they awaken that old ache behind my breastbone. Missing him still hurts. Dreaming of him is worth the pain.

Time passes.

We are two weeks away from our current production—Clue—and it’s a stressful time. I can feel the Granny part of my brain (if you know, you know) working in ways it hasn’t for three years. I’m more able to problem solve than I’ve been since Cooper died, and am learning new skills (or tricks). It’s reassuring to feel sporadic sparks in the figuring-out part of my brain, as I’d feared that ability was one more part of me decimated by tragedy.

But the weekend was gloomy and the heartache heavy. I maxed out on figuring out, my frustration was palpable, and I was tired. Not ideal mood conditions. Many times during the weekend’s work, I longed to ask Cooper’s advice on how to make some set piece work, how to figure out one more thing, what to do next. He, too, had this weird brain; his input would’ve been helpful. When I was finally driving home last night, dejected and defeated, I said aloud, “A dream would be nice. It’s been so long.”

Twenty-four hours ago, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a Cooper dream. Today, I’ve thought of little else.

I dreamt of Cooper last night and all day I carried with me the melancholy of waking.