My mind staggers, trying to wake itself. I blink again and again and try to catch my breath. Again, I find myself sifting reality from dream rubble.
Enough, already, Mind.
“What’s the worst nightmare you ever had?” S asks me the other night, at bedtime.
I contemplate her question. “That a hard one. I used to dream over and over of losing people I loved, chasing after them in dreams—”
I stop myself.
She gives me a quizzical look. “And?”
“The worst nightmares are when you wake up and realize that it’s already happened. That the people you love are already long gone.”
She nods. This seems to make sense to her.
I would have told you there was no way in hell he and I could have become strangers like we are. He is long gone, in every way.
Now my nightmares are without hope that I will catch up to anyone. In my dreams, I don’t bother to go looking for help, for the people I think should be there.
The latest nightmares: I am completely on my own, searching for a home. I am not homeless, but I am without home. I have something less than home: home-less.
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