I dreamed of Natalia and of my mom recently, on two separate nights. They were touching dreams.
I do not recall any specifics about my Natalia dream. But I do remember two things. I can still see her sweet little face looking up at me and smiling. You know, that innocent, “I’m in the moment” smile of children. They smile it often, but it is especially moving when you know they are looking up and sharing an experience with you. I only wish I knew what it was she was sharing with me. The second thing I remember, vividly, are her little black curls bouncing. Even as they bounced, they framed that beautiful face with the artistic touch I personally think only God Himself has.
I was asked if the dream comforted me. I don’t know. I didn’t think of it in those terms. But I must have wanted it to be reassuring because I looked for meaning. Complete silence, of course, when I questioned myself about that meaning. No answers then or now. All I am certain of is that I hope to dream of her again.
For whatever reason, I do remember in detail the dream with my mom. I was in some sort of building. It appeared to be like a school. I say that because of the long hall and the layout of the rooms themselves. I seemed to be going from one room to another to talk to people. I found people who wanted me to help them. And I wanted to help. But about the time I was trying to figure out how to help them all, I heard soft crying. As the crying changed and took on more distress, I found myself anxious to go and search for the person doing the crying. The urgency I felt to find out who it was caused me to quickly give out my cell phone number. As I was trying to get through the crowds in different rooms, I realized what I had done. I had shared my cell number! I never give my number to anyone but family and close friends. I began to worry that the people would call me constantly until I could help them. And I already felt pressured!
As I was chastising myself, the crying changed again, becoming deep sobs. The kind that cause your body to shake involuntarily and has you gasping for breath. The kind that are so descriptive no words are necessary. A person coming on the scene would know some tragedy had taken place. It was then I saw a bedroom across the hall. Why was there was a bedroom in such a building? I kept pushing towards the door so I could get to the bedroom. Then I saw my mom. She was sitting on the edge of the bed holding Trista. She wasn’t trying to say anything to get Trista calmed down. She was just holding her and gently rocking her as she sobbed. I remember stopping and making the conscious decision that I would wait before entering the room. Somehow I felt they should get that time; that it was important to both of them. I woke up before getting to be with them. But I actually felt that was the way the dream was supposed to end.
I did tell Trista about both dreams. I was unsure, of course. But I was glad I did. Because she liked them and was comforted by them both. I need no other meaning beyond knowing that.
