Recently, I had a dream about wedding. It wasn’t just any wedding, though—it was my wedding, though not the wedding I have often dreamed about. It was a small, cheap, family-filled affair in a large room with wooden booths laid out on the perimeter. It was also a double-wedding, shared with my cousin (as though she were my sister) even though she’s already married. I spent much of the affair deep in conversation with my mother, looking for my beloved.
My husband was tall, gangly, and somewhat socially awkward. He immediately took my hand upon finding me, and we navigated the throngs of dancing guests as one unit, linked by fingers and.
It’s strange, but that simple dream hurt so much upon waking up. Everything was all wrong—the wedding, the dress, the groom—but the simple act of holding my hand in a moment of marital bliss made everything feel absolutely right. This man, a figment of my subconscious that I can barely remember, showed me pure, unconditional love for the briefest of moments, and reality stripped it all away.
Waking up and going about my day feels empty and hollow after dreams like that. Dreams like that make me wonder what it is I’m missing about this whole love & life thing.