I'm worried about Jana.

She e-mailed me the other day that she has been dreaming of her twin, who died of cancer last fall. The dreams are disturbing, Jana says, and she misses Julie more than ever when she wakes up.

The two women shared a strong, and sometimes eerie, bond, as twins often do. They finished each others' sentences, had the same dreams.

When Julie's first husband died, Jana knew before Julie told anyone.

When Jana broke her leg on a ski trip in Michigan, Julie felt the pain while sunning in Florida.

The two balanced each other perfectly: Jana, the New Age metaphysical whiz with hundreds of healing crystals, Julie, the pragmatic, herb-growing earth mother with a couple of dozen crock pots and enough Tupperware to store leftovers for all of Manhattan.

Jana plans for her next life; Julie planned for her next meal. I suppose it's a matter of perspective.

Julie had strange dreams before she died, dreams of flying through fire and walking for miles in a quiet forest. She always asked Jana what they meant, and Jana always seemed to know.

Now Jana calls me about her dreams, as Julie did, and I can offer sympathy and suggestions, but no insight.

She sees her sister in dreams and wonders why Julie is there, if there is some message or warning that Julie is trying to deliver.

Jana seems to be settling into her grief, getting ready for the long haul. It's been less than a year, but long enough for her heart to realize what her mind already knew: Julie is not coming back.

It is an awful lesson to learn.

My mother died almost six years ago, and I still miss her. A friend's husband died nearly 20 years ago, and she still catches herself turning to tell him things.

I want to tell Jana things will happen in stages, that grief eases, if you let it.

The grinding loss she feels will eventually become a kind of companionable sadness, a comfort, like a favorite sweater, stretched out of shape or shrunk too small but always thrown on over an old shirt to chase away the chill.

I've learned that sadness can be too comfortable, too safe. There are no surprises in mourning, only in living. Sometimes surprises are pleasant, sometimes not.

I began dreaming about my mother several months after she died. She would be there on the fringes of the dream, not part of the main theme, but a face in the crowd.

I worried about that when I could muster the energy.

As the months passed, she came closer to the action. Eventually she even began getting speaking parts.

When she began giving me advice -- and being right -- I stopped worrying about the dreams. Everything was back to normal.

Maybe my mother is some sort of subconscious symbol for my conscience or superego or voice of reason, whatever name you want to give the little voice that tells us to play fair, pay our taxes, take an umbrella when it's cloudy.

Maybe the dreams are my way of knowing that she's still in my heart and always will be.

I prefer the latter.

Peggy O'Farrell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.