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Dreaming
I am a crazy dreamer, literally. Sometimes I wish I could replay my dreams and watch from the outside in, instead of the other way around. Last night, my dream was, again, pretty fantastical, but the thing that has hung around with me this morning is that I was in my childhood house on Bristol Way in Vegas. There I was, scrounging under the bed in my brother's room for a stray sock, like it was the most natural thing in the world to be there in that spot I haven't been for over 30 years. I saw the same old carpet, the same closet door, the same big window I once smashed with a basketball. Strange how that happens in dreams. Sometimes I'm in Grandma Lillie's basement, with her canning jars full of pickles and peaches and pears; sometimes I'm in Grandma Mary's attic, with the trunks full of Life magazines and celebrity tattlers. Sometimes I'm in the little studio apartment where my Quiet Man and I were newlyweds, where the radiator hissed on cold February nights and we walked through the bedroom to get to the kitchen. Sometimes I'm on 625 West, with the brick fireplace in the master bedroom and a laundry chute cut out of the bottom of the bathroom vanity. Sometimes I'm in Old Greenie, the Idaho farmhouse where I watched President Kennedy's assasination on a black and white TV with my weeping mother. Funny that the tangle of memories takes a step forward when I'm dreaming. Wonder where I'll be tonight--stay tuned.
I am a crazy dreamer, literally. Sometimes I wish I could replay my dreams and watch from the outside in, instead of the other way around. Last night, my dream was, again, pretty fantastical, but the thing that has hung around with me this morning is that I was in my childhood house on Bristol Way in Vegas. There I was, scrounging under the bed in my brother's room for a stray sock, like it was the most natural thing in the world to be there in that spot I haven't been for over 30 years. I saw the same old carpet, the same closet door, the same big window I once smashed with a basketball. Strange how that happens in dreams. Sometimes I'm in Grandma Lillie's basement, with her canning jars full of pickles and peaches and pears; sometimes I'm in Grandma Mary's attic, with the trunks full of Life magazines and celebrity tattlers. Sometimes I'm in the little studio apartment where my Quiet Man and I were newlyweds, where the radiator hissed on cold February nights and we walked through the bedroom to get to the kitchen. Sometimes I'm on 625 West, with the brick fireplace in the master bedroom and a laundry chute cut out of the bottom of the bathroom vanity. Sometimes I'm in Old Greenie, the Idaho farmhouse where I watched President Kennedy's assasination on a black and white TV with my weeping mother. Funny that the tangle of memories takes a step forward when I'm dreaming. Wonder where I'll be tonight--stay tuned.
1 comment:
Your dreams sound lovely!!! For some reason, I don't dream very much when I'm pregnant. Weird how that happens. Lachlan asks me almost every other day if dreams are real. I say "no, they're just in our minds"...because I'm afraid he's having bad ones!! I really should ask him what they are about!
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