Painting of Morpheus,Phantasos and Iris by baron Guerin

"You died, mama!  You were dead," he sobbed, "and you were in a big hole."

  "I'm here, honey; it must have been a dream; feel me?  I'm right here."

  "But you died, and they dug a hole, and it's dark down there...," his voice hiccupped out.

  A hole, a big hole; the image took shape for me...

  "Ah...the hole...like the one we saw on television earlier?"

  "I don't know...Ye-ess...yes"..."

  "Mmmm...Here, scoot over closer to me..."  My arms were getting numb from the ladder pressing into them..."where they were digging for things from people who lived long ago?  The archaelogists?  Remember?"

  "Ye-ess."

  "It did look like a grave, didn't it?  But I'm here; it was a dream, and I'm alive; and I'll be staying here with you..."

  "Do you promise, mama?"  (oh, boy...please don't ask me what happens when we die...)

  "Well, I hope so...I hope to be here for a long time...before I die..." I trailed off.

  "But you'll die...why will you die, mama?  Mama!"  he sobbed again. 

  "Well, everyone dies some day, honey, it's just the plan...even the plants and the trees and the animals...it must be okay to die..." I ventured lamely.

  "Like Pepper?"

  "Yeah, like Pepper,...and the cats who got old..."

  "But I was in the big hole, and it was dark...dark...I think I was dead."

  "Hmmm...I thought I was in the hole."  I kept stroking his back, big slow circles...

  "I don't know..."  He lay down on his side, and I stroked his forehead.

  He continued for a bit to mix our deaths together: me, mama...me...mama...then separate them again.

  "When will you die?  Oh, mama..."

  "Well--...."

  "When you're old?"

  "Yes...probably when I'm old.  And maybe by then I'll be ready to die, and it'll be okay, ya know?  Death is bound to be a good thing.  Some people call it crossing over, like there are good things on the other side..."

  "Oh, mama...when you get old and you can't walk very well?   Oh, mama, don't die, and I'll hold your hand and walk you to the bathroom!  I'll get you a cane to use!" 

  He started to sob again in earnest.  But the image!  This tiny brown boy leading me to the bathroom...

  Ah, Lord; what a picture..."I know you will, honey," I finally couldn't help but laugh.

  "I'll take care of you..."

  "I know you will, Jobie..."  I patted him a bit longer, stroked his forehead...his breath came easier now.

  "Here; let me get some Kleenex for a blow."  He blew.

  "How about a song?  Softly, though; Rory's still asleep. Okay?"

  He nodded.

  "Okay.

Inch by inch, row by row
Gonna make this garden grow
All it takes is a rake and a hoe
And a piece of fertile ground

Inch by inch, row by row
Someone bless these seeds I sow
Someone warm them from below
Till the rain comes tumblin down

Pullin' weeds and pickin' stones
Man is made of dreams and bones
Feel the need to grow my own
Cause the time is close at hand

Rainful rain, sun and rain
Find my way in nature's chain
Tune my body and my brain
To the music from the land...

  "G'night, Jobie; sleep tight...

  Could it be Morpheus who enters our dreams to teach us the things we need to know, but need help to learn?  How does he choose which mortals to instruct with his woven imagery, then stroke with his wings to lull us back into the forgetfulness of sleep?  Did he tangle mother and son together in the dreamworld of this small boy to nudge him into acceptance of his mortality, our mortality in the best way possible?

What a gift to be part of this rite of passage no one speaks about...how many of us went through it alone and afraid to mention it to those around us who loved us...afraid maybe, to burden them with our new realizations?  As though they might be too fragile to bear it?  And we stay silent, thus securing no solace for ourselves?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPEMZteFjWc&feature=related