I woke up this morning from what is only the second dream I’ve had about my brother since he died. We are outside of a house taking pictures with The Nerdy Mr. The house is on top of a mountain or something, because the lawn is a sharply sloping hill that continues through the treeline.

Between shots, I give my brother my DSLR to hold while I go to do— something. I don’t think I knew why I walked away even in the dream, (insert awkward laugh here). When I come back, I find out that my brother had not only thrown my my camera down the hill toward the trees, he’d taken out the CF card and thrown it separately from the camera.

I ask him why he did it, and he just shrugs and makes a vague sound like “dunno”. Like it was just an impulse he’d followed without understanding why. I fume and want to hit him in the back of the head, even imagine feeling my hand impact with the curly mass of hair, but don’t, because I’ve heard this a million times before and am made more tired than angry by it.

Instead, I climb up and down the hill looking for my equipment, or at least the remains of it. I search through the meticulous landscaping at the top of the hill, and crawl through dirt and prickly bushes at the bottom of it. I find my camera at the bottom of a freshly dug ditch. The red earth, just the color of the infield on a baseball diamond, clinging to me as I jump down into the hole to retrieve it. Somehow, both the lens and body are miraculously intact, unscratched, and perfectly clean in my filthy hands. My hands at that point being covered in grass stains, streaks of that orange-red soil, and smeared blood from dozens of little pricker bush scratches. But no CF card.

I keep looking, combing through individual blades of the lawn, the grass much longer than it looks at a distance because the foot-long blades have been endlessly beaten down by feet and rain. I dig through the bushes near the house, scour the stairs that lead up to the house, and find nothing. The more I look for the stupid card, the angrier I get, because not only can I not remember what pictures and video are on there, I can’t even remember what we were supposed to be shooting today.


I look for my brother to yell at him, because I’m so terribly angry and need to explain why, but he’s just gone.

The thought that wakes me up is: “I’ll never not be angry at him again.”

This dream pretty much analyzes itself, doesn’t it?

I’d apologize for not writing in the past 6 months, but I’ve been in the part of grief I call The Gray Haze - where it’s like you’re wrapped in cotton. You’re not really paying attention, and it takes an especially strong thing to make you feel anything. So I don’t really feel a way about not writing. Or, like I said, much of the past 6 months.