I had a dream last night which featured characters from my current life in Atlanta merged with those from my childhood. The Atlanta doctor who delivered my daughter 4 years ago had a house that was a remodeled version of a notable landmark on my childhood bus route in Westchester, NY.
There was a last-minute party with dancing to hip hop and pop music, hosted by my childhood synagogue. That was in part a throwback to the early 90s when Young Israel dinner dances still had pop music, as well as the days of my early adulthood going clubbing.
The woman who greeted me to come to the party was the rebbetzin of the shul.
She and her husband have been gone since 2008, having passed in a house fire that April.
It was a year and a half after my dad had suddenly died of something, which was not an aneurysm.
All this begs the continual question:
Is my childhood dead?
I thought it was.
But it is so very much alive in my memories.
I thought living away from my hometown would make things rosier, but perhaps it blocks the natural grief process. And perhaps from that blockage comes further suffering.