Some of my dreams are so vivid, so full of color, so real that I can't
believe I'm dreaming. When I wake up, my eyes are wet with tears. My heart is
banging against my ribs. I tell myself, It was only a dream, Farah, only a
dream....And it might or might not comfort me. It depends, because I do dream
about dead people so much. I stroll with them. I talk with them. I hold them in
my arms. They are all alive inside me, still. My father and grandmother appear
to me, and they are reaching out and beckoning to me, murmuring softly, Come,
Farah. Come be with us now! During the dream these images do not frighten me. I
love my father, and I'm so glad to see him. His voice comforts me. But when I
wake up in the morning, I remember what people say about the dead beckoning to
you in your dreams: that it means you are going to die soon yourself. That's
when I tremble.
But it's all in my head. That's what I have to keep telling myself. I'm safe
in America now...and besides, they're not all terrible, the dreams I have.
Lately, I dream that I've grown wings sometimes. I have feathers. I can fly. I
love those dreams! I'm soaring overhead, and people are all pointing to me and
exclaiming, Look! It's Farah! She can fly! Farah can fly!
I wake up with a glad heart then and feel that I am flying in some sense:
flying into my future-and yet-the past won't let me go. Not completely. Not yet.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...