Last night I dreamed of Ichabod. I suppose bringing him up in my blog did it. Ichabod is a person I first met in Miami when I was 14. You might have supposed we were friends, and I guess we were, but it was a rocky road with him. He had been so abusive to me during Thanksgiving dinner the last year we actually had a Thanksgiving here that I told my mother that he wasn't allowed in my house anymore. She called him to inform him of this factoid and told me that he wept. OK, I relented on the condition that he stop the abuse. He was careful to not actually say anything abusive after that, but I could see he was practically exploding from the effort. I believe that the main problem with Ichabod was senile dementia.
In my dream I was living with my mother in an apartment. In the living room was a door and a large window. The blinds were closed, and someone tapped on the window. I looked out and saw that the mailman was delivering a parcel, so I asked Mother to open the door and take the parcel. Standing at the door was Ichabod. He looked much younger, and much stronger and slimmer. He wore only blue BVDs. Cheesh. He didn't speak to either of us, but had an expression something like a person would that had played a prank on you. He handed Mother my parcel.
When I woke up, I felt a little disturbed by the dream. Ichabod died two years ago of COVID. Sometimes I wonder if a dream of a person who has died is a visitation from the afterlife or just another manifestation of one's own mind during sleep. Either way, why was he dressed only in his underwear? Why did he look so young? Most of the time when I dream about a person who has died, they don't speak to me. Why? What was Ichabod's purpose in visiting me in dreamland? Probably to tell me not to speak ill of the dead. The whole thing was a little spooky. Rest in peace Ichabod.
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