Dreamwalk
Dreamwalk
Kathryn H. Ross
A few weeks after you died you came to me in a dream.
I think we were in Africa, because where else would we be? I think we were in Africa because we were by the sea and the sky was clear and the air was warm and every face around us was as brown as our own and it felt like home. The news had heard about your resurrection, about how you emerged from the earth and broke out of your box dressed in white. TV screens showed your smiling, radiant face, surrounded by dancing sisters, and you were all aglow. You were serene. You knew.
You weren’t just resurrected—you were reborn, skin smooth and clear as a child’s, eyes as bright as a new soul. You were shining with heavenly light, a modern Moses descended from the mount.
There was celebration. Everyone was dressed in clean linen as white as lilies in snow. There was dancing and singing, movement of the brown bodies that breathed last breaths too soon and too suddenly, who slipped away violently, or quietly like you, found all alone in your apartment across the way from your friends who hadn’t heard from you in days.
I imagine it like this (I hope it was like this): you were draped across your bed, your head held gently by your pillows, one arm lifted so your hand was in your hair, the other lying across your stomach. The sun was spilling in through your windows, illuminating your body so that it was alight, burning but not burned. You were the Lord’s Bush and he spoke, said, “This is my daughter with whom I’m well pleased. This is hallowed ground.” And you were smiling as peaceful as a cat in a sunny spot. You were calm. You were not in pain, not anymore. You were resting, but you were no longer tired. Death was everything it should have been. And resurrection came. But I wonder—
How long were you alone?
How long before you were found?
How long did your body wait to be gathered up and placed in the earth?
And once you were gone and everyone knew it, how long before the Lord let you come to me? How long before He let you come tell me all you now know—tell me you’re all right? And how long
before I see you again?
Kathryn H. Ross
Writer & Poet
Kathryn is a SoCal-based writer. She is the author of Black Was Not A Label (PRONTO, 2019; Red Hen Press 2022), a collection of essays and poetry, and Count It All Loss (GoldScriptCo, 2021), a poetry chapbook. Learn more about her and read her other works at speakthewritelanguage.com.
Dedication:
I met and knew Tonya through Hallmark Mahogany. We were two of the inaugural members of Mahogany's Writing Community comprised of Black women creatives telling our stories on community, faith, and purpose. Though we both lived in Los Angeles, we never got the chance to meet up in person. We had planned to and had exchanged numbers and messaged each other over text and Instagram often, but the plans were never firmed up. She had lupus and was waiting for a kidney. She'd been waiting for years, and I would soon learn she'd even written to Congress about the Organ Donation System, and how tragically slow it is, how that slowness has taken too many lives. In mid-December, she shared a post on Instagram letting her friends know she'd just gotten out of the hospital after two weeks and was recovering and resting at home. Less than two weeks later, she was gone.
Every piece of Tonya's writing I read, from her poetry to her articles on Mahogany, struck me deeply. She was profound yet gentle, full of wisdom, humor, and heart. She also loved superheroes and Marvel - something we bonded over in a way that only Black women "nerds" can really appreciate and understand. Tonya was my friend. I miss her and the potential of how that friendship could and would have grown if given more time. I dedicate "Dreamwalk" to her because I believe in my heart she came to me weeks after the news of her passing, and I'm so grateful that she did. Though I am a believer in God and Heaven, I spent the weeks after her passing feeling this endless anxiety not knowing where she was. I believed she was in Christ's arms and presence, but a large part of me understood that I didn't really *know* — that I couldn't really know. But that dream gave me peace and showed me without a doubt that her soul is safe and at rest with the Lord — and that I'll see her again.
Photography by Carmen Comrie