An Answer Out Of Season

Dearest Rachel –

I saw you last night, but I couldn’t understand you.

It was, of course, a dream. I don’t know exactly where we were; I think Daniel and the girls were with us, but the location didn’t look familiar. It was a dream, so it’s probably irrelevant. I just know you were there, and it broke my heart to see you, because I knew that day was coming.

It was a lucid enough dream that I could actually ask you (although not lucid enough that I could warn you of what was to come and prevent it from happening) what you would do if you knew your time was almost up.

“That’s easy,” you said. “I’d run a Christmas tree simulator.”


I didn’t get it.

I still don’t get it.

It might’ve been prompted by the fact that one of the videos I was watching last night was one of those Reddit reads, this one on r/mildlyinfuriating: the narrator was expressing frustration over a picture of Christmas tree displays in some store, complete with one decorated with pumpkins, bones, and topped off with a skull in lieu of a star, since this is well before Halloween. Bad enough that Thanksgiving gets subsumed by Christmas; now, it’s swallowing up Halloween as well!?

Or maybe you had in mind updating your gardens of time. For what it’s worth, as far as I know, it still has its Christmas decorations from last year; I can’t imagine you to having taken them down in January before the accident. I also couldn’t speak for whether anybody has visited since you’ve been gone, or even if that’s possible.

It could be about the fact that you and I both got copies of Sims 4 late last year. Since I’ve never really played with the Sims, I think I was hoping to work alongside you in learning the game, as opposed to our usual way of life, wherein each of us had our own computers open and we were in our own works even as we all sat together in the family room. I still haven’t touched that game.

Or maybe it’s just the fact that it was a dream, and I shouldn’t read so much into it, because that’s the way dreams are. It seems like such a meaningless thing for you to want to do before you pass on, though. So I can’t help wondering what prompted that response, even if it was in my head rather than yours.

Part of me worries about this meaningless exchange being the last time I see or hear from you. Part of me is frightened that any other dream that I might see you in will be no less incomprehensible. I think I’ll take my chances, though, and hope to see you again. Maybe you’ll be able to offer me some clarity on what all this is about.

Or maybe, just maybe, we can just hold each other again, and not worry about meaning on this little clump of dirt I still insist on calling ‘home.’

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I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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