The other night I dreamt of Ben, something I rarely do. I was walking in a public place -- I don’t know where -- and I realized Ben was walking beside me. He was the 13 or 14 year old Ben, still a boy but only just, the gentle Ben of home schooling in Tucumán with cats on his desk. And that blue striped long sleeved dress shirt.
I was surprised, not because I knew Ben was much older than that, but because I knew he had died. I was overwhelmed by his return. I wanted to say something to other people, to share him, maybe to let them know he was back. Ben didn’t say anything but I knew he didn’t want me to draw attention to his presence. I put my hand on his back, friendly, but also to make sure he was real. We walked a few more strides then he was gone. No words, no purpose, except maybe to show himself. That’s all.
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