Whenever I think of him, one scene emerges to the fore. Patrick perched on the windowsill of our cafetorium, or in the breezeway, playing his guitar. Sometimes humming or singing softlyThis morning I awoke early, but with an acute case of abdominal pain. After popping a couple of painkillers, topped off with a glass of water, the pain subsided. Then I took a decision that seemed mundane at the time. I went back to sleep. Big whopping deal, you might say. But it was, as I came to see from the ensuing dream. Let me elaborate. In this dream, I bumped into someone whom I never thought to see in a dream, never mind the real world. I wandered around a large room, with strangers milling about. A school fair seemed to be taking place, as each person held a plain white poster with a school name written on it. I walked by the poster of Park Road School and then past the front wheels of a rickshaw, resting none-too-comfortably on top of the trunk of a black car, when someone called my name.
Also read: http://www.dhakatribune.com/magazine/arts-letters/2017/06/10/third-culture-kid/
I looked up and was shocked to see the glowing face of my old high school classmate, Patrick James Wilcox, sitting on a rickshaw seat, smiling! There was that unforgettable sweet and somewhat mischievous smile. The twinkling eyes. That kind heart. The sharp wit. And that creative, intelligent mind. Whenever I think of him, one scene emerges to the fore. Patrick perched on the windowsill of our cafetorium, or in the breezeway, playing his guitar. Sometimes humming or singing softly. In the dream, he held out his hand, pulled me on board, and gave me a hug. “You’re much prettier now,” he said, smiling. I had to laugh. He was right. I certainly wasn’t the best-looking girl in school. Far from it in fact. He was eager to meet his family and friends. So, we leapt down and headed into the nearest hallway. We wandered into a room at the far end, where a large group stood around, chatting. I didn’t recognise their faces, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that they knew him and were stunned to see him. Seeing Patrick walk in and give everyone bear hugs nearly brought me to tears. There wasn’t a dry face in the room. He had touched the lives and hearts of so many that they all missed him, and he missed them as well. After bidding them farewell, we walked out a side door and into the backroom of an industrial-sized kitchen. A few familiar faces from school were standing around a wooden table; others were in an extended corridor. A similar scene followed.
I would like to believe that he appeared in my dream to remind me that, though my demons haunt me still, my creative soul, far from being spent, is still alive and I cannot let it die. Otherwise, I too shall cease to liveOn leaving the kitchen, we were back in the room with the rickshaw. After heading toward a different door, I turned around to see Patrick walking down another dark hallway, whether to greet still others or return to where he had been, I don’t know. Our paths would cross no more, I realised, and, hence, did not call him back. I stepped through the door and into a different dream. Throughout the day, I wondered what the dream meant. Why did he make an appearance? Why not my father, who died a few weeks after Patrick’s suicide? I reread Patrick’s obituary and his old blogs for clues. A couple of entries were eye-opening, as I realised I was at a parallel place, fighting similar demons, and had denied myself the one thing that always worked as my coping mechanism, writing. I knew if I were to start again, I wouldn’t know how to advance. Yet, perhaps I could begin by writing about the dream and this experience? It’s 2012 now. May 6 has come and gone. If Patrick’s friends and family, and I, thought of him on that day, or over the years, it was privately done. Not with fanfare. “The world don’t stop,” our ninth-grade history teacher Larry Garibaldi would say. He’s right, and we know this. It doesn’t stop. Nor do we, as we try to keep up with its pace. Nevertheless, though our lives have grown eventful, that should not mean we forget those who had, even if for a short while, been a part of our lives, and long since left this world. Forgetting them would be akin to a scenario in which they’ve never existed. Far be it from me to claim to have known him well, or to say that we were close friends, when we were not, but from those four years at HSHP, it was clear that Patrick was a kind and creative soul. My heart is broken that he is no more, but I would like to believe that he appeared in my dream to remind me that, though my demons haunt me still, my creative soul, far from being spent, is still alive and I cannot let it die. Otherwise, I too shall cease to live.Sayeeda T Ahmad is a poet. This essay was written in 2012. Her first poetry collection, Across Oceans, was published by Bengal Lights Books in 2016.
