A Different Kind of Dream

I had a dream about Alex the other night — and this one was different.

In the past, when he’s shown up in my dreams, I wake with a deep ache in my chest. The kind of pain that doesn’t really feel physical, but lives somewhere deeper. Those dreams always reminded me of what I’d lost.

This one didn’t.

I don’t remember everything clearly, but the parts I do remember feel vivid and important. It was cold out. Snow was still on the roads. I was back at our old house in Garner. A neighbor from across the street was standing out in the road, visibly upset, and I was heading outside to see what was wrong — to help.

Then I heard a voice behind me ask, “Is everything okay?”

When I turned around, everything changed.

The cold was gone. The snow was gone. The house wasn’t the same house anymore. It was suddenly a bright, sunny day, almost as if I had been transported somewhere else entirely.

And there was Alex.

He was leaning out of a doorway, looking so good — healthy, present, real. Seeing him stopped me in my tracks. We hugged. I told him I loved him. I told him how much I missed him.

But this time, it didn’t hurt.

It felt like a reunion. Like seeing someone you love after a long absence. Not grief. Not loss. Just connection.

I don’t remember much more than that, but his face and his presence were so clear it stayed with me long after I woke up. The feeling stayed too — not heavy, not crushing, but warm. Peaceful.

I don’t know exactly what it means, and I don’t feel the need to explain it away. What I do know is that something has shifted. The dreams don’t feel like reminders of pain anymore. They feel like moments of continuity. Like the bond didn’t end — it just changed.

Maybe this is what healing looks like. Not forgetting. Not moving on. But learning how to remember without breaking.

And for the first time in a long while, I woke up grateful for the dream — not because it brought him back, but because it let me see him again without the ache.