In my dreams the blades of grass under my feet are the waves of an ocean, and I am a ship, sailing the sea. The sea is a glass of water that I am drinking in a field, the leaves reaching up above my head into the stars, becoming the hair of a great beast, old and ancient.
But when I wake up, the grass is just grass. The water comes from a tap, lukewarm and metallic, and I have not seen the sea in many years. I live alone, on a busy street. The window in my bedroom doesn't close. Angry car honking creeps in through the crack as I drift off to sleep, being replaced by the sounds of a train pulling into a station. The brakes hiss, and I stand alone. Small and afraid. My mother stands next to me holding my hand, I am gripping her tightly. She pulls out a handkerchief and kneels down in front of me, wiping a smudge off my face with her gloved hands. She looks into my eyes, smiling slightly, and says something but I can't hear her over the bustle of the station. She says it again, shaking me violently. I open my eyes. My mother is gone, and has been replaced by an old man in a windbreaker and orthopedic shoes. He stares at me concerned, with his hands on my shoulders. He looks at me with wrinkled, tired eyes, and I look back. My feet touch the cold ground, and my skin bristles at the morning chill. I am sitting on a wooden bench, in a park. The dream is over, and I am alone again. I feel a tear force itself down my face, as I wonder how something so fleeting can feel so real.
The blades of dead grass crunch under my feet, and water pools around my toes as I walk, searching for something I recognize in this strange, unfamiliar place. An old dog hobbles toward me across the park, its brown hair matted and dusty, something about its deep black eyes, old and ancient.
But when I wake up, the grass is just grass. The water comes from a tap, lukewarm and metallic, and I have not seen the sea in many years. I live alone, on a busy street. The window in my bedroom doesn't close. Angry car honking creeps in through the crack as I drift off to sleep, being replaced by the sounds of a train pulling into a station. The brakes hiss, and I stand alone. Small and afraid. My mother stands next to me holding my hand, I am gripping her tightly. She pulls out a handkerchief and kneels down in front of me, wiping a smudge off my face with her gloved hands. She looks into my eyes, smiling slightly, and says something but I can't hear her over the bustle of the station. She says it again, shaking me violently. I open my eyes. My mother is gone, and has been replaced by an old man in a windbreaker and orthopedic shoes. He stares at me concerned, with his hands on my shoulders. He looks at me with wrinkled, tired eyes, and I look back. My feet touch the cold ground, and my skin bristles at the morning chill. I am sitting on a wooden bench, in a park. The dream is over, and I am alone again. I feel a tear force itself down my face, as I wonder how something so fleeting can feel so real.
The blades of dead grass crunch under my feet, and water pools around my toes as I walk, searching for something I recognize in this strange, unfamiliar place. An old dog hobbles toward me across the park, its brown hair matted and dusty, something about its deep black eyes, old and ancient.
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