Someone is about to dig up a body. A dead body is going to be discovered. Somehow, I know this. A hand will be uncovered from the sand or beneath the dead leaves. Perhaps the body was stuffed into a garbage bin or underneath the seat cushions in the basement of the church.
I remember that I killed someone and buried the body. I don't remember the exact circumstances. Was it an accident? How did it happen that I could kill someone and forget about it until now?
But now I am panicking because someone is going to discover the body. I'm not sure exactly who, but I know that the dead body will be uncovered, that everyone will see it. I can't hide it any longer.
When I wake up, I am terrified, shaking. Someone is going to find out.
I'll put on the bedroom light, look around the familiar room - the books, the pillows, the plants. It takes several minutes before I realize that it was just a dream. I never did kill anyone.
This year, I have gotten closer to the body in the dream. And sometimes I recognize the clothing - the red t-shirt, the jeans, the sneakers.
It is my body.