A week before my we left for vacation I experienced a second dream. We are in my third grade classroom.
My mother, who taught me in third grade is leading the class in a reading exercise. She is walking up and down the floor in the spaces between the row of seats.
At one point she becomes agitated, angry, turns around and begins berating a boy. I cannot see his face. My mother backs away. I turn to see the boy, feel for him. The words my mother has spoken are harsh and deliberate.
Blood streams from his stomach, smears and covers his white tee-shirt. I do not recognize this boy, and yet he resembles a young man in our church who would later died of AIDS.
Years later, nearly two decades, I retrieved this dream during a class on dreams. A graduate in psychology I was studying to become a licensed psychotherapist.
I re-entered the dream, led by our professor experienced in Tibetan dream yogas, who was reciting a mantra, and re-experienced as I recalled. Only one thing differed. I recognized the face of the boy whose white T-shirt blood had covered.
This aspect of the shirt had left baffled over the years. Who was the boy? And where had the blood come from?
This time I saw the full picture.
The boy was my brother. And the blood had spilled from a wound created by a bullet form a gun fired by mother.
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