Dreams Are

Dreams are

The sun was shining, a warm glow covering me as I lay, eyes closed on the beach. Suddenly a shadow blocked the lovely sun, frowning, I opened my eyes. There was my brother, Teddy.

“What cha doin?” he said.

“Playing the piano,” I said, “now get out of my way.”

“You’re gonna get cold if you don’t get up,” he added.

I looked up at him ready to vent, sarcastically, and noticed he was wearing a heavy jacket, mittens and a knitted hat. Suddenly taking it all in, I sat up in shock. The back of my coat caught on something, I was apparently laying down on a large rock, in the snow, in our back yard.

Suddenly I realized the back of my head was starting to throb, I reached back, and pulled my hand away, it was covered with blood. Apparently, I didn’t lie down, I fell. I was not twenty-three, nor lying on a beach while on vacation from my wonderful job in Los Angeles. I was twelve and in my back yard in Franklin. Teddy was yelling for Mom.

It wasn’t a bad cut on my head, but letting go of the rest hurt. I didn’t want to be twelve. I wanted to be twenty-three, I wanted that job and that money and that life.

As my mother bandaged up my head, and my brother laughed, I started making plans. I would get good grades. I would learn to dress nicely and make lots of friends. I would make myself into the girl on the beach on vacation living that wonderful life I’d had in that unconscious dream.

“So, how does that fit with this assembly line?” Todd asked.

“It doesn’t,” I said, tossing another bolted slat at him. “I’m just saying, dreams are stupid.”