Just a dream
Last night, I dreamed I woke up
Back in my old apartment, my old life,
Curious about the dream I'd just had.
Still in pajamas, I wandered next door
Where I could pester James for coffee
After Derek had long since stumbled out of bed toward work,
And tell my old friend about my curious dream.
In my dream, I'd dreamed,
That I had met the most wonderful woman,
And she and I had fallen in love,
And bought a house together,
And she was the most beautiful, perfect woman imaginable.
I knew it was a dream, see,
Because this house we shared was full of boxes,
And no matter how much I unpacked or took to the attic or gave away,
There were still more boxes, boxes in my son's closet,
Boxes in the hallway, boxes even outside under the eaves of the house.
But, in my dream, I smiled as I told James I dreamed,
And enlisted his enthusiastic help--he loves this kind of thing!--
To find this woman . . . this "Michelle,"
Who had utterly stolen my heart away,
Before I woke to find myself back "home" in my old apartment.
How wonderful it was, then, to waken again,
To find myself greeting the real morning, not in James' living room,
But in the bed Michelle has had since she was a child,
With her sleeping peacefully beside me--
She, and our home, and our life together, are real!
How wonderful, to see the morning sun lighting the wisps of her hair,
To feel the warmth of her arm resting on the small of my back,
To have my dream-search successful so easily.
And later, when she stirred, I thanked her
For being here when I woke up,
And she smiled sleepily to herself,
Because I say that so many mornings.
But I explained to her
Why this morning in particular I meant it even more strongly,
When I said I feel so privileged to wake beside her.
And she laughed, loving me,
And laughed, too, about the boxes, because they're really here too.
(We've sworn, by the way, that all the boxes
will disappear by Christmas.)
She laughed, and told me the good news,
That my dream was only a dream, and she plans to continue sharing my reality . . .
And the bad news, that the boxes, too, are real:
"Honey, your dream's not a dream--just your waking life's a nightmare!"
(It's not, of course. It's a wonderful, happy, love-and-laughter filled life, just currently lived among too many still-unpacked boxes. But most of the house is finally fixed, and half of it's box-free at last!)
How much more could I ask for?
Saturday, Nov 11, 2000 07:06:00
Return to the Library.
Return to the Front Door.
E-mail me at Weavre@graffiti.net