I dreamt about him again last night. He was thin and pale, maybe sick, or just underslept. I drove him down treacherous roads, weaving around tight curves, going faster and faster, until we arrived at my home in some foreign place. I didn’t ponder where we were, because in dreams thinking only distracts you from true meaning. I plied him with tea and homeopathic medicines that in the waking world I put no stock in. I spoke with him about things I can’t recall, though I know it was meaningful and as relevant as any conversation we ever had. He was not as charming or lively as in real life, rather more abstracted and sad. I tried to heal him with ineffective remedies and words, desperate to return him to the man I thought he was, oblivious to the truth that waking me remembered every day. I searched cupboards and drawers for St. John’s wort, coming up empty at every turn and yet unceasing in my determination to find the cure. If I looked harder, it would be there; if I kept seeking, it could be found.
And when I wake, the truth assaults me. You cannot help someone who’s dead.