Not Dead

It was reported that she had died, but I saw her months after the obituary. She came to me in a dream naturally, the mind has to be as relaxed as a three-toed-sloth before it can report any intelligence to us. I knew her, the way a distant relative knows you from an old black and white photo. Anastasia: a crazy name for an Irish woman, but actually quite common in the long buried book of Celtic Memories. I was hanging-out under my eyelids, the way a winter sun hangs under a winter tree, or a sloth hangs from a moist lichen reverie maybe. When Anastasia - her 80 year old hair flying on countless dove-gray moonbeams came to me, a pitter-pattering of soft rain falling onto my big, round, brown, dreaming eyes. “I am not dead, and you are not dead.” She said. I should have been afraid but fear takes much more energy than I had at that moment. I heard myself answer: “Then you are alive”? The soft rain continued to speak: “Did I say that”? That’s all I remember. Later, just for we big thinkers, I commenced to rummage through the long buried book of Celtic Memories. It was then that, ever so slowly, I remembered.