In the first dream, you were trying to call me on the phone,
No, in fact, you did call on the phone, and I answered. But you didn‘t know you were dead. So I talked to you for a while and you never got a clue. I told you I was fine and you seemed glad. I am fine, by the way.
The other night I dreamed about you again. This time you were around, and you still didn’t know you were dead, even though you’ve been dead now for more than four years. You were solid, three-dimensional and all, but starting to fade and become transparent. You had on brown corduroy pleated slacks and a plaid shirt and a woven belt and loafers. You might have been tan.
Why do I dream that you don’t know you’re dead? Did you fool yourself so well in life that it has spilled over into your afterlife? Isn’t this the only afterlife you’re getting?
24 August 2002
You are still dead. Today I got a lot of scratches on my arms from pulling scotch broom, wild roses and blackberries. I used a tool that I think is like a pick axe and I nearly broke it. The tool is old and the handle loose and now cracked. I thought of you because I was using the tool incorrectly and you liked to yell at us for using tools incorrectly even though you really were not a handy guy. Now that you are dead, you don’t have to be handy.
2 September 2002
Andy wrote a poem the other day and mailed it to me. He thinks you died not knowing my phone number and since we’re unlisted you’d have to call Mom to get it. You’d have to promise her a check. I also think that if you called her she would pretend she didn’t know you were dead. Here is my poem:
If you call Mom for my number, she’ll pretend she doesn’t know you are dead. She hopes that way she’ll see some money out of you, somehow.
And she doesn’t want to have to be the person who breaks the bad news to you.
You might have to call Mom at work. She has the same number as ever. Do you know it?
If you call me, what will the caller-id say?
P.S. If you call Mom and John answers, he will know just what to do, because he’s the kind of guy who has dealt with stuff like that before.
When I walk down stairs and the house is quiet, I hear my joints popping and snapping like yours did.