Listening to Skribe in the background, I got up and worked out the kinks in my body – though I wouldn’t say I actually worked out – I ain’t sweaty enough for that. It’s been a quiet couple of days here on Cape Cod, but I’m up alone this morning and it’s just me and the ticking clock and it’s a little TOO quiet after the news and the dreams…
I dreamt that Richard McMullin had come to me during some sort of show, maybe outside of the New Deal Café – maybe at my mom’s old work at Prince George’s Community College – and had said two people had done something. It was hard to understand him but in the dream it’d been some sort of abuse. He gave me two names I didn’t recognize and realized he was going to have to come with me to point them out.
In the dream, Richard, who was sharp as a tack till the day he died, was suffering some level of mental decline, and though he’d come to me visibly upset, by the time we were on the move with his daughter holding his hand on the other side of him to keep him from just wandering randomly he was vacant and unaware. I tried to remind him “okay, you called him Richard Six, who is that? Can you tell me who that is?” and Rachel’s on the other side of him holding back tears.
And so I wake up, and it’s peaceful, but I feel like there’s not enough time. People never have enough time.
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