I had a dream a friend rushed into my house cradling a dead duck (she was calling it a ‘Grebe’). She was upset because she’d hit it with her car. I was sitting on my kitchen floor alone with the Grebe, a thin, dusky teenager, sullen and silent. I was trying to keep him happy but he couldn’t be made happy.
I was wondering who he was, so he stood up and showed my his wounds and where a deep gash was cut into the front of his hip, showing some organs bulging through. I knew he was a ghost and I was tired of looking after him, so I said ‘Get out of my house, get out of my house, get out of my house!’. He wouldn’t go, so I said it again. Then something changed in me and I took him gently by the arm and led him out the back door, around to the front of the house.
There was the most beautiful evening sun I’d ever seen, and the wooden gazebo with a lambswool, pink blanket floating in the wind, unbelievably soft. The light was so warm and glorious I started to cry, and holding the Grebe-boy’s arm I said, ‘You were here for just a short time.’ He was saying. ‘It’s okay’. And then I really start to weep, full of relief and grief.