Dreamt of My Brother, Tony

Last night, my brother Tony spoke to me in my dream.  His voice was clear, with  exactly Tony’s timbre and inflection. He wasn’t explaining his suffering, or telling me of his final tormented days in Berkely, the last days when sleep completely evaded him, the days before his escape by suicide. In my dream Tony didn’t mention the incessant hammering voices in his mind, taunting and demeaning him, “Who do you think you are singing in the Russian Men’s chorus? You can’t sing. You don’t belong.”  

Rather, Tony was peaceful just as we used to be when we were together. There was the time, before the Oakland fire burned Tony’s sweet little house in the woods, and before he sank into depression. On that earlier day, I was visiting Tony in the little house. “Wanna see a movie” Tony asked. “Yes!” I replied and we hopped into his old yellow convertible with car jars of rum and cokes, and headed to the Berkeley theater to see whatever movie was showing that day. We felt a bit naughty and very happy.