She stands at the top of the stairs, beautiful but grey like a ghost. Frightening.
Even in my dream I am aware that this is a dream. This person is truly beautiful. She is soon to be married and I cannot wait to see her as the glowing bride I know she will be. But I cannot see her shifting from this atrophied state.
Does she move down the great wide stairs? I am vague on that. I am vague on almost everything except that she is in a long silvery grey lace gown. I cannot quite see her face yet I am acutely aware of each loving feature, a skeletal face above me hides none of this. I know this young woman intimately. She is my daughter. I love her so dearly and there is no good karma surrounding this dream; this memory of the dream.
Somewhere, written within hours of that dream, there is a poem with the full details of that dream. The marriage did not last. But nothing of the dream could have foretold that outcome. She remains my beautiful daughter. The mirage at the top of the stairs seems no part of her now.
Benita H.Kape © 23.5.2014