I dreamed about Juliette last night. When she first died I had, if not countless, at least a dozen of these dreams in the first few months. They were various raw longings to touch her, to smell her, anguished ‘what-ifs.’ Last night’s was not like that.
In the dream I walked into a café, and there was Juliette, queuing at the counter. She looked a little older than five, and her hair had grown to shoulder-length. She turned with the most beautiful smile, and I just ran to take her in my arms. Unanguished, just full of the familiar pleasure I have in hugging any of my children. Of course I’m crying at the thought now, but at the time it felt so ‘normal’ and just the loveliest thing.