“…talking to you, God. Is that all right? With the passing of people, I feel a growing need to speak to You alone. I love people terribly, because in every human being I love something of You. And I seek You everywhere in them and often do find something of You. But now I need so much patience, patience and thought, and things will be very difficult. …”
~Trans: Arno Pomerans Hillesum, E. An Interrupted Life p. 16
A repeating dream born of a yearning for solace. No, not really a dream. More a nightmare of a different sort where the sudden appearance of a dial phone transforms me into a relentless pursuer. A series of events, where I stumble over one into another, the phone line is silent; “this number is no longer in service;” I can’t recall the number as I dial; a nearby phone book opens up to blank pages; I have no coins; my mind goes blank when I pick up the receiver. Failure becomes an enemy which I fight, again and again, until waking releases me.
Are these incessant-themed dreams a telling of memories when the house settled into night? Those moments of private passage where thoughts and images become ethereal and reality is colored by deep silence and blinding darkness? And then…unexpectedly consciousness responds to a gentle, “ring ring” with, “hello.” Uninterrupted exchanges between sisters, separated by darkness—confiding, sharing, questioning—creating our night time stories and lulling us into sleep?
Within a family of deafness, it was you—the eldest—who heard my night cries…my first spoken words. And in exchange, it was I who acknowledged you as I heard your voice especially within the stilled silence of night.
Are these dreams an attempt to reconnect with childhood moments of friendship, of sisterhood, of validation? Or, an obsessive voice calling for another in the darkness of despair? A child’s soul—voiceless—hidden within the darkness of absolute silence decrying the definite disconnection by death?
Within this day of remembrance, I wish to know that my prayers pierced death’s barrier and you hear my deep gratitude for the solace you nourished within our childhood as well as my hope that these foundations of our sisterhood that have intertwined within the passage of time will awaken to a renewed togetherness.
“There was a single likeness, a small sketch that he kept inside a gold locket, …the locket disappeared to the rag-and-bone man. I do not know where the likeness went. It slipped through the cracks of time and went to where the lost things are.”
“There was no such thing as the right time, he explained. Time was an idea, it had no end and no beginning, it could not be seen or heard or smelled. It could be measured, sure enough, but no words had been found to explain precisely what it was.”