Fourteen

I had another dream last night. In it, I was old; as old as I am now.  I’ve never been old in a dream before.

She was in the dream, too, as old as I am; and sick. I woke to find she had died in her sleep.

I'd been awakened by banging on the front door. It wasn't the police this time, but her 'sisters' (aka the Wasilevish sisters; she had no sisters, but Agatha used to refer to her as her ‘fourth daughter’).

The Wasilevish sisters died before she did, but in my dream they were all alive. They told me they'd been calling her for several days, with no reply, so finally they came over to see her. I led them upstairs and showed them her body lying in the bed.

It was a wish fulfillment dream. In it she died peacefully in her sleep, in her own bed at home, not in a hospital, butchered by an incompetent doctor like a pig in an abattoir.

I wonder if I’m still alive because I sometimes forget she’s dead, and expect the door to open and her to enter.