20 June 2014
In today’s post Ben Huberman has suggested that I describe a recent dream.
It’s summer, 1955, and I’m driving my 1948 Pontiac convertible to my girlfriend’s house. Everything’s normal – the gravel pullout in front of her house on Plum Street, which she always says is plum out of town. The square, granite stones supporting the front porch are familiar. However, no matter how hard I try, the scene will not stay in color. It keeps reverting back to grey tones. Puzzled, I shake it off, and mount the steps and then pause.
I wonder if I should rap on the door? We had words the last time we spoke. Perhaps she’s forgotten our argument. I have.
A frail woman with folds of thin skin hanging from her arms responds to my knock. Without a doubt, this is her mother. Then, with liver spotted hands, she pulls the strands of gray hair from her face, revealing the familiar flat place on the point of her nose, and the deep brown eyes.
“Scott?” she said, moving toward me.
I awoke sitting up in bed.
“What’s wrong?” muttered Barb, her voice sounding far away.
“Ah … nothing. I thought I heard something,” I replied as I laid back and staring into the darkness. Until my head clears I’m not sure where reality begins or ends.