I released some of Eric's ashes in Gig Harbor, Washington, from a sea kayak. I picked a quiet spot facing the Puget Sound. The sunny morning was peppered with lightning, thunder, and hail. Maybe it was his excitement. It started to drizzle as I released the ashes, as if it were a sign of his approval. "'Tis a good spot." The Pisces' ashes sank slowly with gravity, traveled with the current in clean, clear water. Freely. Gracefully. "Finally," I smiled, "unconfined." He had always admired and loved graceful movements. I searched for the mental file where I keep pictures of him climbing, each step calculated, deliberate, unhurried. It was dance-like, although the man honestly couldn't dance to save his life. I had never seen Eric did anything in a hurried, uncontrolled manner. Never. It was maddening.
That night, Eric came to my dream. This was only the second time I had ever dreamed about him. The first time being two months after his death, when he said he was flying me to Dallas for that month-long bad ass business trip. I was certain he came to announce he was no longer in pain, that he was free to move. And that I could rest assured. This time, we were invited to lunch at our friend Judy's. She made us Japanese ramen noodles - the real stuff, not the packaged crap - with Chinese preserved vegetables. It was some seriously good eats. He looked exactly the same. Relaxed. Dressed in his customary uniform: T-shirt and jeans. And we slurped ramen at Judy's. Unhurriedly. It was good.
I felt peaceful. I was proud. Of myself and my husband. Grateful. I felt brave and courageous, but with much humility and gratitude. I reminded myself again that I live a charmed life with unexplainably good fortune.
"It's good. It's all good. Keep on living." He said.
