FROM THE

Editor’s Desk

BY SARAH NIGBOR If only in my dreams

Dreams are a way our body processes and manages emotions. At least that’s what behavioral sleep experts say. There are countless opinions from multiple experts on what dreams mean, on how they can be interpreted. From my research, I don’t think anyone really knows exactly what dreams mean or why we dream what we do.

Some dreams are repetitive, probably because they mirror our daily lives. I worked at Philander’s in Prescott for 13 years. I absolutely loved it, but there were times it was insanely busy. I still have recurring dreams of being the only bartender/waitress and having the place fill up as I frantically try to keep up. Sometimes it seems like the dream goes on for hours.

My 13-year-old son used to sleepwalk, mumbling odd things that didn’t make sense. One time he scared the daylights out of me when he appeared without a sound in the living room. I was up late reading and everyone else was in bed. He looked at me with blank, vacant eyes and said in a monotone voice: “Help me, help me, help me.” He startled me so that I screamed, which scared him, and he turned and bolted back down the hall. He then came out of room and stuffed a clean pair of underwear into a pillow case, shoved it in the towel closet, and went back to bed. I wonder what in the world he was dreaming about?

My favorite dreams are the ones in which loved ones who have died appear. Sometimes they are so vivid, so real, that when I wake up, I’m convinced for a moment or two that they really happened. Then reality hits and I realize once again that they are gone. That’s a little hard to take.

My grandpa has been in my dreams many times since he died 10 years ago. I can’t tell you how much I miss him. I thought it would fade over time, but if anything, missing him has intensified. Same with my great aunt Lorraine. A recent dream had us all sitting around the old kitchen table, with my mom and grandma too, playing 99 (a card game we used to play frequently). My grandpa wore his red buffalo plaid shirt, my grandma was smiling and my great aunt was laughing like she used to. It was so real and I was so sad when I woke up. A fresh wave of grief washed over me as I realized it was only a dream.

My dad has been in my dreams too. I have no idea if the dreams are accurate, since I was 2 when he died. But in them, we go fishing for walleyes sometimes, or it’s like he’s trying to show me something. Whatever the case, I feel like I get to be with him, if only for a few minutes. I always wake up wondering what he was really like.

I am grateful though, for these dreams, because in them I can see them again, at least for a little while. I can hear their voices once again. I can remember what it felt like to be surrounded by their love.

Every now and then a scent will appear out of nowhere that reminds me of one of them. Inexplicably, the scent of my aunt’s perfume wafts through the car as I’m driving, which has happened more than once. Other times, the scents make sense, for that place and time, but bring back a rush of memories. Sawdust and gasoline remind me of being in the woods with Grandpa. Coffee makes me think of sitting at Grandma’s table with a cookie. They live on in memories. And I firmly believe I will see them again someday. But I still have work here to do.

My heart aches terribly for those who lost loved ones in the Spring Valley and Prescott communities to tragedy this past week. To the families and friends of Doug Whaley, Cadence Allen, Ayden Nelson and Masen Powell, I am so sorry. We at The Journal are so heartbroken for you. Words are never enough. I know they won’t erase your pain. But please know you have so many people who care about you. I pray that their memories will live on and flourish, that you will find peace, and that you gain strength from those who love you.