Author: Slavomira Krasna

No, I did not dance, neither did I sing. There was no magic spell to cast, no one to throw the ring.
There was only Sara and her concerned gaze, spelling out loudly- Slavka, I had no idea, yet you’re exaggerating… you’re not saying it in chronological order, that means it’s emotional…. please think about it. I can help you find someone good, there’s no shame in seeing a professional. Few sessions and they’ll help you, you’ll see it differently. Please, before it’s late…Will you promise me, to at least think about it? Let me help you…”, her dark eyes got filled with tears.
My answer was a simple no, which her eyes translated as stubbornness, a sky-hitting ego, and I didn’t try to correct them, since her words- “…in a way you’re behaving like your friend- you like being submerged in it…” outlined the picture she was seeing.
No, there was no need to tell her that a psychologist is no one but another human being, who is paid to pay attention and to actually hear you out, since there’s no one else who would listen.
So you can relive “the stressful” experience without being stressed, you can find the logic of illogical, stamp the “meaning aka label” on the very issue, cast the light on the misunderstood.
That’s the whole healing process, which I was more than familiar with, for I used to be my own psychologist my whole life. Not in a verbal form, I preferred writing, since the dead letters had the unique quality of possessing an actual spine, holding their ground, no matter the circumstances.
I knew I had to write it, just like those years ago. Yet back then, it was different. It was only one summer day filled with a heavy scent of wood, flowers and burning Sun.
This time I began many different times, tried to stick to the timeline, still, it throws me back into the loop. Of hearing the shuffle of old slippers. Seeing a tall skinny determined man wearing black, walking up the hill, bracing himself for the gale….

Walking home few evenings later, eye picked up but a few linden sprouts, a couple of wild blue flovers swinging in the rhythm of Strauss, and gathered all the light eye could dig out in this thick darkness. It certainly was no bonfire, yet neither was I a true witch.
The hands groomed the hair of the remaining painted cushions and there she was, sitting on a dark green sofa, the midnight herself, just like she had never left.
The old books insisted the portal was open and so eye tried to speak to him. Verbally, yet failed again, the only words leaving my mouth being insanely repeated Prepáč mi, prosím, drowning in salty waters of one desert…

That night, for the first time since my dad’s death, I wasn’t dreaming about his death or his burial. Instead I ran to the nearby village to pick up my niece Kaya from school. It was raining, and I had just enough time to pop into a shop to buy some cheese. Out of the shop, I wanted to cross water-jets barrier, which was an obstacle on the way to the nursery. I tried to walk through, yet the pain was too great, hence I retracted my footsteps, thinking about the cattle being held within the water-jets corral. Regaining the balance eye saw a tall man, cutting through the water-jet barrier just like me before. It didn’t hurt him at all, yet he got trapped inside, since the time inside was different-denser, the consistency that of honey.
The rain thickened, followed by a thunderstorm, and eye found a shelter under the old bridge, together with other people. That’s when my phone rang. The man next to me asked who’s calling me.
I replied “my dad”, and as I was saying those words I knew my dad was dead. And yet I also knew, it was really my dad on the other side.
I picked up the phone and heard his voice clearly- “Slavka, that rain is much too heavy, I know what you’re gonna say, still I’m gonna give you a lift…”

“…In dreams, our dead come calling… Usually when we make contact with our dead loved ones the dream tends to be more vivid and detailed than your average dream, in fact the conversation often contains a hidden message that can be decoded metaphorically…”

The indisputable fact is that my daily nightmares about my dad dying, or being buried, fully stopped that very night🖤