Dreams of Our Daughters
Dreams of Our Daughters
Gideon Zielinski
“For, Ursula, thou hadst but tasted time And art departed long before thy prime. Thou hardly knewest that the sun was bright Ere thou didst vanish to the halls of night. I would thou hadst not lived that little breath— What didst thou know, but only birth, then death?" - Jan Kochanowski, Lament II
Grief. What is it?
In my world, grief is a gray, veiny, devilish hand, grabbing at my insides. Although terrifying, at least this form of grief feels human—at least there is a battle. I believe despair can take worse forms. Sometimes, I am ice. Stiff and blue and far away. My soul files for divorce and shuffles out the door. This sorry sack of guts can fend for itself. I know I’m not alone.
Everlynn, my daughter, died on July the 7th, 2020. She was nineteen days old. She was born with an enlarged heart second to trisomy eighteen. My daughter took one crying breath before doctors intubated her. One breath. I think she wanted more. She certainly gasped for more. I know I wanted her to have more.
*
Ursula, the daughter of Polish poet Jan Kochanowski, died the year 1579. She was two years old. She died without warning. Her father says she had an enchanting laugh, sang joyous songs, and ran around her parent’s home, bringing delight to all in her presence. In his grief, Kochanowski wrote nineteen poems about his daughter. When I read his words, it feels like we’re having a conversation. Two fathers, discussing their daughters, wondering how they’re doing.
Kochanowski is like a fellow knight, throwing me a sharp sword, allowing me to slash the tentacles of despair and numbness. Our conversation grew. Kochanowski shared some ideas with me, and then I shared a few with him. Back and forth we went. It was exciting and real. There were backslaps and shoulder grabs as we shared our raw, angry emotions—laughter as we described fond memories of our girls. And, once we coughed up the dark and pitiful thoughts, we straightened our backs and asked honest questions. Questions any parent asks when a child leaves on a long journey.
Several questions I asked took the form of wondering: Are you really someplace else? What’s it like up there? Do you remember me? Do you know you have an older brother? What are you doing? Are you just a nebula of cosmic debris, forever floating around God? Are you no more? Just ashes in a jar? Will I see you again, Everlynn? Really, will I?
Kochanowski’s questions, though similar in vein, took on the form of different words: “My dear delight, my Ursula, and where Art thou departed, to what land, what sphere? High o'er the heavens wert thou borne, to stand One little cherub midst the cherub band? Or dost thou laugh in Paradise, or now Upon the Islands of the Blest art thou?”
*
When our children are away, often phone calls soothe our worries. If a child is at daycare, these communications are simple; however, having a child in Heaven presents a bit of a problem. Still, God has His lines of communication. Prophets, visions, and dreams. Indeed, dreams did the trick with Joseph, Jacob, and Daniel. They received the message.
But are these phone lines still operational? Kochanowski seems to wonder, and he asks to dream of Ursula. For him, the lines weren’t dead after all. Indeed, Kochanowski has a dream about his daughter, and he shares the revelations in his nineteenth lament: “And then it was my mother did appear Before mine eyes in vision doubly dear; For in her arms she held my darling one, My Ursula, just as she used to run To me at dawn to say her morning prayer, In her white nightgown, with her curling hair Framing her rosy face, her eyes about To laugh, like flowers only halfway out. ‘Art thou still sorrowing, my son?’ Thus spoke My mother. Sighing bitterly, I woke, Or seemed to wake, and heard her say once more: It is thy weeping brings me to this shore: Thy lamentations, long uncomforted, Have reached the hidden chambers of the dead, Till I have come to grant thee some small grace And let thee gaze upon thy daughter's face, That it may calm thy heart in some degree And check the grief that imperceptibly Doth gnaw away thy health and leave thee sick, Like fire that turns to ashes a dry wick… Then I awoke, and know not if to deem This truth itself, or but a passing dream.” (Lament XIX)
And let thee gaze upon thy daughters face. To see your loved one’s face, to be granted “some small grace,” I think this is the desire of all grieving humans. Like Kochanowski, I have tested the telegraphs of old. I’ve asked God for dreams about my daughter. I don't know if it's been my asking, or it's been chance, but I’ve had several dreams about Everlynn since she died. I’ve also had distinctive daydreams. I often receive these dreams while staring at the sunset. It seems sunsets have become brighter since my daughter left. I'm sure it's just my eyes looking closer. But, perhaps the angels have given Everlynn a turn painting the evening sky. Don’t sunsets feel like a preview? Like they’re trying to tell us something? Maybe the light stepping behind the horizon is an advertisement—a billboard message conveyed through the glowing horizon.
One of these daydreams I’ve had about my daughter, Everlynn is set in the mid-morning. There’s a knock on the front door. I walk to the door and pull it open. No one is there. But, as the door opens, something falls to the floor. A newspaper. I stoop and examine. I grasp it. There’s something silky and comforting about the paper. Stepping outside, I sit on the porch steps and unroll the pages. As I read the title, my eyes tighten: THE HEAVENLY HERALD Sunday Edition Below these large words, there is a colorful picture. It’s Everlynn. She’s smiling, her first four teeth visible, her blue eyes have grown large and intelligent and shaded by lashes, her autumn colored hair is in small braids, resting just above her ears. Her dress is green and covered in flowers. She looks healthy, pink, and radiant. I see another subtitle and read: Everlynn Hope Zielinski: Her First Year Everlynn arrived in this heavenly realm on July the 7th, 2020. She came by the lake of the west. Floating over docile waters, ushered by her two angels—Ruth and Rose—Everlynn’s basket traveled up a small creek and rested at the cottage of Mary Flower. Mary, the caretaker of the especially little ones, gave us a few words about Everlynn: “She’s a sweet one,” Mary says. “She’s taken very well to the place. And the ladies all squabble over who gets to hold her next. She has such a gentle smile.” When asked about Everlynn’s favorite activities, Mary replied: “Well, I would say her favorite things are wandering through the orchard looking for the little orange flowers and feeding the small birds on the beach. You know, the giant trees attract the most beautiful birds. The little princesses just love it. Everlynn was rather shy around the eagles, but she giggled and blushed when she saw the bluebirds. Sometimes, several young chicks perch on her arms, and she beams such a smile. Yes, all the girls love the birds and the gardens. Everlynn will do very well.” Miss Flower’s stone cottage, laced with green vines and budding flowers, rests among the two largest mountain ranges in the region. Ironically, The Valley of Giants, named for its massive apple trees, cradles the smallest girls in the land. It is here that the young girls grow and learn.
*
I agree with Kochanowski. I don’t know if this is a passing daydream or firm truth, but I find peace in the image. Oh, so I’ve won? Victory! I’ve fought off grief? So, I can just move on now? No. I don’t think so. But I’d rather have a small sip of water than no water at all. That’s what it is to imagine my daughter in Heaven. A sip of water. It keeps me going. After I read the words of Kochanowski, it felt like I’d drank a full glass of iced lemonade. Quenching. Wonderful.
But this doesn’t last forever. Before long, the dry fever of grief hunts me down and has me scurrying around the sand. One day, I hope to find a steady stream. I think, when I see Everlynn again, it will feel like I’ve found the great Lake Superior. And all my thirst will be no more. I believe Heaven is a place. A physical place. Truly, I now believe Heaven is more real than earth. I wager you, when we get to Heaven, we’ll look down at this earth and wonder, “what in the world were we thinking, goofing around in that game?”
Maybe I’m wrong about Everlynn. Maybe my little girl is in a state which my mind cannot comprehend. I guess the rational side of my mind understands this possibility, but it doesn’t help. I like to imagine my daughter running down a green hill, wind in her hair, mountains towering above. I like to imagine she forages for flowers in the morning and plays on the beach in the afternoon. I like to imagine a lady named Mary Flower tucks her into bed at night and sings her lullabies. I like imagining all this, not because I believe all the details are correct. I imagine these specifics because it gives me a place to go—a place where I can spend time with my daughter. I imagine these things because I like imagining Everlynn. Because it helps.
Gideon Zielinski
Writer & Storyteller
Gideon is a writer and storyteller. He uses the written word to unravel an idea, be it his own or others. After years as a paramedic, he now works as a ghostwriter for people around the world.
Photography by Clay Banks