Dreams have always been a personal comfort and a place of wonder. My traveled dreamscapes are richly diverse, filled with beauty I have never experienced in waking life. Stories grow through my sleep-filled nights, and I often awaken before light, ready to harvest those thoughts and serve them up in words.
In my dreams, I am an athletic, svelte, tall, very blonde, ageless beauty. I rollerblade, snow ski, skateboard, and even backpack the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico in a single night. I notice the tiniest details, quietly storing them away, knowing they will someday enrich my writing. All of this happens peacefully, while I sleep.
But the one thing that escaped me night after night was just one more visit with VST. Each morning held a quiet disappointment as I slowly woke and realized there had been no magical meeting the night before. No sun-kissed island with azure seas surrounding us, no quiet moment at our kitchen table at dawn. No final kiss filled with passion, regret, sadness, or goodbye. Not one more gaze into the eyes that once held my forever, accompanied by that familiar playful wink—or that look, the one that came in so many varieties. The look that could draw me in, correct me, or gently end a conversation. I would have settled for just one more silent exchange of glances, no matter the topic. I would wake refreshed from other dreams, but never from the one I wanted most. Until a few weeks ago.
That night was ordinary. I fell asleep halfway through a movie, with Oliver making soft, sweet puppy sounds in his crate as I drifted off, just as I always do. But the next morning was anything but ordinary. My wish had been fulfilled. VST and I had spent the night together.
We were outdoors in a beautiful, natural, green place. We smiled and talked, quietly savoring the time we had been given. He was his younger self, without any sign of illness—just my Dr. H again. Most of what we said remains just beyond memory’s reach, shared in a way that felt almost celestial. But the feeling remained, wrapping my heart in peace. Cancer had not taken this from us. It had not stolen our ability to connect.
There was one part, however, that I remember clearly.
“Darlin’, the memorial was fine. Perfect. The words and songs you chose honored our life together and me in ways that warmed my heart.”
In that moment, a wave of relief washed over me. Everything had been done right.
“It was thoughtful of you to send programs and notes to those who couldn’t come. That meant a lot. It was all just beautiful.”
Then he paused.
“However…”
However? What more could there be?
“You missed one part.”
Even in the dream, I knew it. There was always that one moment—something that could have been done just a little differently.
“Please explain,” I said.
“Everyone who needed to be remembered was… except for three. Pat, Steve, and Harry. Honey, you forgot to tell them. Please, tomorrow, send them notes. Let them know I’m gone. Don’t forget.”
“I promise.”
That was it. Not a grand declaration of eternal love or a glimpse into what comes next. Just a simple, urgent reminder that three important men in his life needed to know.
A doctoral classmate, a boss, and a close work friend. People who had been part of his life in ways that were his alone. Important to him, just as my friends are to me, but not naturally at the forefront of my mind.
The next morning, I went to the closet and retrieved the box. If you are widowed, you probably have one too. Mine holds programs, prayer cards, the guest book, and sympathy notes. Every item inside feels sacred, filled with meaning and memory. In VST’s box, I found everything I needed.
I sat down and wrote three handwritten notes, each one personal and thoughtful. I placed them in silver envelopes along with a program and prayer card, sealed them, and sent them on their way with love. Mission accomplished, VST. The rest, we will talk about another time. I went on with my day.
Two weeks later, I heard the familiar sound of the mail truck outside. There is something special about having a mailbox at the end of your drive—the rhythm of the truck stopping and starting, the quiet anticipation as it reaches your home. I stepped outside and found a handwritten card waiting for me.
The return address read: Dr. Pat.
Inside was a full page of careful handwriting, ink on paper, the old-fashioned way. He wrote of friendship, of laughter, and of the easy, joyful spirit that VST carried through life. His words were filled with kindness and memory, exactly what you would expect. But as I read further, the letter took on a deeper weight.
He shared that he had been diagnosed with leukemia five years earlier.
Cancer.
The same relentless enemy.
VST’s real-life Superman—a man who had served for 35 years in law enforcement, protecting others—was now fighting his own quiet battle. Alone, as so many cancer patients do.
In that moment, everything came together. I understood why the dream had come, why that message had mattered so much. It was never just about remembering names. It was about connection. It was about reaching someone who needed to be reached.
I held the letter in my hands, struck by the depth of a friendship I had never personally known, yet had somehow been called to honor. A man so important to VST that he found a way to remind me, even from beyond.
You just never know what dreams may hold, or what might arrive in your mailbox on an ordinary day. There are people in our lives—and in the lives of those we love—who matter more than we realize. Sometimes all it takes is a simple note, a memory shared, a reminder that they are not forgotten.
Take the time to write it. Handwrite it if you can. Stamp it. Send it.
You may never fully know the difference it makes, but it may arrive at just the right moment, carrying comfort, connection, and even a bit of hope.
And as for dreams, embrace them. They are more than fleeting images in the night. Sometimes, they carry meaning. Sometimes, they carry love.
And sometimes, they find their way exactly where they are needed most.