Today I woke up with my throat a bit irritated by allergies so I took an antihistamine and decided to sleep it off (all I have to do today is a 2-3 page essay and I can knock that out in an hour or two).
Part of the dream I had involved hearing some guy talking about losing a brother in WW2 or Vietnam, and I had my back to him crying bitterly. I wanted so bad to jump up and say “I died and left a brother behind myself… your story really hits me.” And I think during the dream I was going to tell him, but too many things happened and got in the way. Another part of the dream involved an old English village with stone structures that was part museum, sort of like Beamish, and although it was meant to be mainly 19th century some of the stonework was unmistakably medieval.
I woke up feeling strange about the whole thing. I haven’t thought much about the family I left behind in 1915, though I do know that my brother Albert was the one who chose my epitaph. Aside from him, I don’t know if anyone else in the family knew about me; one of my sisters left for Australia in 1891, she probably had no clue I was ever gone.
I really wish I had the time and money to spend looking for living relatives from that life. As far as I can tell no one from that family has any clue that John Harris, their distant cousin or great uncle or whatever I was to them, even existed. There’s no mention of me as anything other than a statistic, except on sites where I’ve posted or where I’ve had some input (like John’s page on the Yeovil history site).
Still, I know I must have broken someone’s heart sure as there was a brother to write my epitaph.