Maybe you’ve had a dream like this—
a moment that felt more like a memory than imagination.
If so, I hope you were able to hold onto it, too.
I don’t often remember dreams of my mother.
Maybe it’s the passage of time, or maybe it’s something else—
something about the way grief settles in the heart,
soft and heavy,
quiet but ever-present.
But last night, I dreamt of her.
And in that space between sleep and waking, everything blurred—
thoughts, emotions, senses, and something deeper…
maybe even spirit.
Smells became feelings.
Feelings became images.
Happiness felt timeless.
Love, tangible.
It was one of those dreams—
the kind you wake from with tears in your eyes
and a strange kind of peace in your chest.
Memorable.
Magically awakening.
I miss her every day.
But in that dream, I didn’t have to.
She didn’t speak,
but she didn’t need to.
She looked at me the way only a mother can—
with eyes full of everything I’d been needing to feel again.
Then she leaned in,
and pressed the softest, most familiar kiss to my cheek—
the kind that says you are mine, and I love you,
without a single word.
Even after I woke,
the feeling lingered.
So did the scent of her—
that soft, familiar fragrance
that always made me feel safe,
wrapped in love.
And strangely,
sweetly,
there was even a taste—
something warm and faintly floral,
like a memory held on the tip of the tongue,
reminding me of home,
of her.
“I love you more.”
Not in words,
but in the silence that followed,
and in the ache that lingered after I woke—
an ache wrapped in grace.
I’m writing this mostly for myself,
to hold on to what I felt.
To remember.
To not let it slip away.
And I’m grateful for the dream—
for the kiss, the scent, the warmth.
For the reminder that love doesn’t end.
It simply changes form,
and sometimes, if we’re lucky,
finds its way back to us in sleep.