Precious Child

In my dreams, you are alive and well
Precious child, precious child
In my mind, I see you clear as a bell
Precious child, precious child

In my soul, there is a hole
That can never be filled
But in my heart, there is hope
'Cause you are with me still

--“Precious Child,” Karen Taylor Good

Last night I had a dream of Thi. Her daddy had just given her a bright blue winter jacket, the color of a summer sky. She looked happy and was smiling. I was looking at her from an upward angle, able to see her chin, her eyelashes, her hooded face. My heart ached at her beauty and I called out, longing to embrace her, but she didn’t hear me. She was dancing, whirling, looking ever upward at the at sky.

I was floating comfortably while wrapped in sleep, in a place where I could forget. Waking up is like being yanked back down to earth, my back slamming against cold, cracking concrete, and the memory of reality pummels me. Every morning, the thought assaults me before I could even open my eyes. It plays on loop like a haunting melody’s refrain that I can’t get out of my head: “Thi is gone. Thi is gone. Thi is gone.”