Dreaming in Spanish: When the language of loss becomes familar

I had a dream in which I was actually living my life, and my husband, now deceased, wasn’t there in my dreams. This was new. I was beginning to live and dream in the language of this new reality in which I now inhabited. Everyone else in my dream kept saying, “Where is He?” and I kept responding over and over, He isn’t here. I shouldn’t be imagining He is here, should I? He is gone. Is there something wrong with me, that I don’t have Him in my dreams?

In my self-observational half dream/half conscious state, I wondered about my life, and my dreams. How do I translate this narrative into a language that I can understand? In my former life there were familiar threads, webs that held things together, a two-part invention (Madeline L’Engle), that gave life some kind of meaning. The sounds I make now have no meaning in my empty quiet house. They echo or fall silent to the earth.

There is no One to tell that the sunset was beautiful tonight, that it held just a slight foretelling of snow. No One with whom to share the ride, to pack the car, to sigh with at the end of the day, or with whom I can delight in the grandkids, laugh, sit quietly, or dream about the future. A robotic existence seems more common now. I find myself wondering what I should do next. There is no one to consider the options with me. And so, I am learning a new language. Like, Spanish, I know a few words, but I must now learn to dream in Spanish.

When the language becomes so familiar

That there is no translation necessary,

When new normal is the reality

When the images transcend the past –

Then you will dream in Spanish

The question is whether I want to be

So acculturated that the Mother language

Is forgotten.

I want to remember, but it is fading

Now more romantic that it really was

But some details are distant, unclear

How do I translate that verb

Do I speak in the language of this new country?

Do I let go of what I have known?

Can I conjugate the verb and still have meaning?

Or will I loose my sentiment,

The sweetness of my Mother tongue?

I only know that for the first time

I dreamt in Spanish.

Janet E. Hartwick Sterk