I Dreamed I Saw Alex

Tim Koechlin

I dreamed that I saw Alex. He was a tiny curious round-headed toddler with jam on his face who loved me totally and asked if he could sit with me. I said "Yes... but let's wipe your face."

I dreamed that I saw Alex. He was a tiny round-headed toddler with a furrowed brow, about to have a tantrum.

I dreamed that I saw Alex. He was 7 or 10 or 12 or 24 or 32. He wondered if I wanted to have a catch.

I dreamed that I saw Alex. He was walking down Caroline Street, from the bus stop to his mom’s house. As I approached by car from behind, I thought “that kid looks like Alex will look when he’s grown up.” And, as I got closer, I realized that it was Alex. I tooted the horn and waved as I passed him. He looked up, caught my eye, and gave a cool adolescent “what’s up” nod.

I dreamed that I got a call from Alex, from Florida. "I’m in a bagel shop with my friends,” he said, “and I am trying to remember that story about when we met Martin Brodeur."

I dreamed that I saw Alex. He was 11 and he was riding his razor scooter up the street as we made our way to Watchung Plaza for a slice of pizza. I called out: “look both ways before you cross.” And then he crossed without looking and shouted back “I’m good!”

I dreamed that I saw Alex. He was young and happy and confident and open and eager for whatever might come next. I was relieved and proud of him and happy for him. I can't wait, I thought, to see what comes next.

I dreamed that I saw Alex. He was a 40-year-old man, across the table, looking me dead in the eye, describing the state of his mind, body and spirit when he was at the bottom of that terrible period of addiction. He was sharing with me what really went on, what it all really meant, how he got out of it, and how he’d moved forward. And he thanked me for helping him to save his life.

I dreamed that I saw Alex. I was propped up in my bed, old and unwell. Alex was there to take care of me. He was there to give me a chance to tell him what it all had meant, what I hoped he'd remember. He made a joke about investing all of my money in a sneaker shop. (I wasn’t sure he was joking.) He sat by my bed and asked if there was anything I needed.

I dreamed I saw Alex. He was a crying baby who couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t know what he needed. I wondered if he knew what he needed.

I dreamed I saw Alex. He was a baby, wide awake at 5:15 am, on my lap, on our couch on Myrtle Street. We were watching a taped episode of "Twin Peaks." I wondered if the weird violent vibe of “Twin Peaks” was bad for him somehow. I wondered if “Twin Peaks” might give him a healthy sense that things and people are full of strange surprises. I wondered if he'd fall back asleep soon.

I dreamed that I saw Alex. We were at the Brendan Byrne Arena in Rutherford, NJ. The Nets vs. the Timberwolves. Two terrible teams. The clumsy, ineffective Jason Collins threw down a dunk. “You can’t stop Jason Collins,” Alex said in his spot-on sportscaster voice, “you can only hope to contain him!” In my dream, I laughed, and Alex laughed too.

I dreamed that I saw Alex. He was a tiny baby. As I entered his room on this very early morning, he lit up with the biggest, most heart-breaking baby smile. He squealed with delight. A beautiful boy with a million years of adventure and joy ahead. I smiled too. I grabbed him and lifted him, and his smile somehow got wider, and so did mine. I held him and said: “Today is going to be easy. Today, I’m going to take care of you. And tomorrow too.” He smiled wider still.

I dreamed I saw Alex. He was pacing up and down Grove Street in his down jacket and woolen hat smoking a cigarette and typing texts and jokes and bits and ideas into his phone. He sauntered south, with his slow smoking-a-cigarette gait, past our driveway and then past our neighbor Gautam’s house and then – now obscured by Gautam’s hedges – to the corner and, I presumed, down Harvard Street. Having a smoke and killing time. I sat on our front porch waiting with half of my attention for Alex to make his turn, and reappear, heading north toward our house. Back home.

But Alex didn’t appear, and Alex didn’t appear. I lifted myself out of my chair, walked to the door and then up the walk to Grove Street. No sign of Alex. I followed Alex’s path past Gautam’s house to the corner. I looked left, down Harvard Street. No sign of Alex. I looked over my shoulder and then further down Grove Street and then, again, down Harvard Street. There was no sign of Alex.

Alex, it seemed, somehow, was gone. I asked a neighbor, out walking her dog, if she’d seen Alex. “No,” she said, “not for a long time. Not since last summer. Or maybe longer.” “Weird,” I said, “I just saw him. I just saw him walk by. I was just waiting for him to come home.”

In my dream, my heart sank. I was on the verge of saying: “This makes no sense. He was just here!” I knew that I was right, but I also knew it was futile.

Alex was gone. In my dream, I gasped and I gasped and I said: “Alex is gone.”

And I thought “what do I do now?”

And then I thought: "Wait. This is a dream." But then I didn't wake up.

In my dream, I fell to my knees.

And then I gathered myself. I returned to my seat on the porch. And I waited.

About the Author

Tim Koechlin is the Director of the International Studies Program at Vassar College. He also teaches in Vassar’s Urban Studies Program. He holds a Ph. D. in economics for UMass-Amherst. Tim has taught and written about a variety of subjects including economic, political and racial inequality; globalization; macroeconomic policy, alternative economic theory, and urban political economy. Tim has also published several op-eds and short essays on politics, economics, basketball, aging, healthcare, teaching, racism, meaningful work, labor unions, the pandemic, gun violence, Leonard Cohen, loss and grief. Tim lost his 32-year-old son, Alex, in May of 2023.