Closure ...

Oh, the emotions, swirling about.

Impossibly, it's been more than two years since L.A. Dave died.

And while the immediate ensuing hours and days were the most difficult, there has been a sense of disbelief ever since.

Perhaps that's the case for all of us when someone dies suddenly. Death is hard and sad, but sometimes, there's a logic to it. Some may be of an advanced age, some may be young but ill. Whatever the case, there's a sense of knowing, a time to prepare, to steel oneself, somehow.

But when it's sudden, there's a sense of incompleteness. Something so meaningful should end with a goodbye.

I didn't have the chance to say goodbye to Dave.

But last night, I had a dream about him. He was tucked into a booth in a restaurant that seemed cozy. And he was excited because an umpire had called out his name at a baseball game. And even though I knew that he was trying to travel light, I gave him a satchel filled with things I thought he should have, and the one thing that he pulled out to admire, in true Dave fashion, was a package, that I'd made for him, of cookies. Chocolate chip.

And he scooted his way to the end of the booth and stood up and hugged me. And I put my head on his shoulder. And I knew that I was seeing him for the last time.

This morning, I realized that that was my subconscious's way of saying goodbye.

Not that I won't continue to think of him. Not that "Hi, Beth, it's Dave!" won't still ring through my head from time to time, the way he announced himself on every call.

But I feel a sense of closure, a sense of hope. As though I've been stuck in Neutral since that February afternoon, and now part of my life has shifted back into gear. At long last.