You will not read this.

Turns out, when I wrote here in the past, I did that a little bit for you, because I knew you read what I wrote.  That was one of the ways you loved me.

Joseph Campbell compares rites of passage, myths, and dreams.

The rites and myths have become mythical.  Nobody cancelled what they framed though: the passage. 

You were on my mind a lot before you departed.  You visited my dreams the last full night you were around.  (I speak literally: sun went down, sun came up, then down again.)

In my dream, you were frail, like I have never seen you be.  Still, much less so than you actually were at the time, the last full night of your life.  Which I didn’t know it was of course, I didn’t want to think it might be, I thought maybe I could still get on a plane and see you, maybe that weekend.

In any case, the way you were in my dream, maybe in July you were like that.  You could walk, slowly; you wanted to walk.  We went for a walk together.  There was even a plan for you to teach me at the end of the walk.  Although, my dreams not being of a particularly lucid or coherent nature, it never got around to that.

I guess this is the passage.  A dream of you when you were still alive, because I didn’t get to see you otherwise.  Afterward, a contemporary kind of collective grieving (on the internet).  Then a letter.  Then the next steps.