i feel the need to clarify that this isn’t fiction writing, that these are about real dreams and real events that happened to me, and i was just thinking of them and thought - i should write these down
i don’t remember my dreams, generally, and i don’t tend to put much stock in the meanings of dreams, generally
but sometimes i have dreams that are stickysharp, that are very vivid, and that feel very real to me for the first few seconds after i wake up, and then i’m always filled with an embarrassing amount of relief that no matter what’s going on in my life currently, those problems aren’t my problems
my friends call them my underworld dreams
~
the first one i had was one i was very young, less than six years old, and i don’t remember much from my actual life from that age with clarity that i remember this dream. i was alone on the street, searching for someone, but everything was empty. i wasn’t scared. then i come across two dogs, fancy poodles, but they’re not right. they see me and immediately begin arguing. “what’s she doing here? she’s not supposed to be here.” “get rid of her” “she’s here now, she might as well stay” “she’s not supposed to be here!” and i try and interrupt, but then they’re looking at me, looming, so much bigger than me when they hadn’t been before, until they’re all teeth, and i’m running. all i hear is barking, and i’m not nor have i ever been afraid of dogs, but i run and my chest hurts but no matter where i look i’m alone. the dogs aren’t there, aren’t chasing me, but i don’t know where to go. i look around and i realize that everything’s in black and white. that the only things that hadn’t been a shade of grey had been the those two dogs. life isn’t shades of grey, i remember suddenly, and i bend over to pick up one of the grey bricks lining the sidewalk. i hold it in both hands and break it in half and liquid cement pools from the broken brick onto the ground. “oh,” i say, with relief, “it’s not real. this is a dream. i can leave now.”
then i wake up.
~
my mother dies a week before my tenth birthday and i have a dream that i do not forget. i am in the front yard, looking down at the highway from the large sloping hill of our home, leaning against a birch tree.
there’s a car slowly rolling down our long driveway. once, when i was younger, i was left to play in the front seat of the car as it was parked on top of the long driveway. it was an old car. i moved something i shouldn’t have and the car started rolling and i screamed and screamed, knowing something bad had happened but not how to stop it, and then my mother’s boyfriend, who i hated, ran and jumped into the rolling car and slammed on the breaks.
i am not in this car. it is getting faster, no one to slam on the breaks, and then my mother is standing next to me. “i’m in there,” she says. “you could save me.”
i understand that this isn’t real. that my mother is dead and so she can’t be standing next to me. everything else seems so real and normal, but my mother is here like she hasn’t been for weeks, and that means this is a dream. i look at the car rolling down the hill and remember her casket getting lowered into the ground and i say, “no. you’re already dead. you have to stay dead, that’s how this works.”
she’s disappointed, but not angry, she stands next to me, silent, as we watch the car roll into the highway, watch it crumple, watch it roll into a ditch. when i turn to look at her, she’s gone.
then i wake up.
i’m not relieved. i feel guilty for not saving her, even in a dream, even when she was already dead.
i do not dream of my mother again.
~
my grandmother raised me after my mother died. my grandmother dies when i’m twelve and i do not dream of her when it happens.
i will, years later, but not then.
~
i’m in high school and i have another dream. i am in something between victorian england and modern day. everything is gray. i live in a small apartment.
children keep appearing at my door. i let them in, i feed them, i cloth them. i go to food banks and schools, searching for who these children belong to, but no one claims them, so i keep them. it’s so hard to keep them, but i can’t leave them.
some of the children get sick. i do my best, but some of them die.
i put the bodies in the closet and lock the door. i tell the other, living children not to go near the closet.
i go searching. dead children don’t belong in closets. i go to the hospital, but they say they will not take random dead children. i go to the police and they laugh at me, saying no one will take them, that i’ll have to get rid of them on my own.
i am angry and desperate but there is a part of me that is not surprised.
i go home. i will have to keep the dead children in the closet. the living children ask questions, reach for the closet, and i stand in front of it, standing between my dead children in the closet and the living children in front of me, knowing that they can’t open it, that i have to keep it closed, because if i open it then my living children will walk into the closet with my dead children and they will not come out.
then i wake up.
i do not have any dead children in my closet. the relief is sharp, but not sweet.
~
i have a loft bed in college because the tiny room i’m sharing in this small apartment is not big enough for us to fit two bed side by side.
i dream that i wake up in this bed, in a place that’s not my own. there are children there, that i know but do not recognize. they cry out when they see me and yell for me to climb down. i do and they grasp my hands, pulling me outside.
my grandmother is there. other people that i do not recognize but that i know are there. the children are my cousins. these people are my family. we are outside and it is beautiful and bright. the grass is green and soft.
i sit and talk with my grandmother as the children play. the children run off somewhere else.
“i’m so glad you’re staying,” someone who i thinks might be an aunt says, patting my hand.
the first curl of unease is easy to mistake for confusion. “no, i can’t stay, i’m just visiting.”
“visiting?” she says, pitying. “there’s no visiting. the dead have to stay dead. you know that.”
i am cold. the grass is still soft. it’s still beautiful. i do not want to stay.
my grandmother is sad, not pitying, when she says, “it’s too late. they’re burning the bed.”
i am running. i do not stop to say goodbye.
the house is burning. the children are tugging at the long legs of my loft bed, trying to to pull it to the ground, and all around me are flames. i run through them, ignoring the cries of my cousins as i climb into the loft bed, laying down and burying my face into my pillow that smells of smoke and heat just as the legs crash and i’m tumbling to the ground.
then i wake up.
my pillow does not smell of smoke.
~
it’s finals week and i dream that i’m in a cave. there are bars on the entrance, even though it just leads to even more cave, and guards and a warm yellow light coming from somewhere.
i am with people i do not know. they are not concerned about leaving. i am. i get the gate open, the guards aren’t around. “come on,” i say to everyone. “let’s go. we have to go.”
“it’s just a waste of time,” one of them tells me. “we can’t leave. where would we go?”
i don’t understand.
someone else puts a water bottle and a several packets of saltine crackers into my hands. “you’ll need this,” he says, not unkindly. “don’t lose them. it’s important.”
i can’t force anyone to come with me. the guards will be back soon. they should be here now. leaving seems too easy, suddenly, but it’s not like i’m going to stay, so i go.
the caves are confusing. it takes a long time to find my way out, and i drink most of the water and eat the saltine crackers. when i step out of the labyrinth of caves it’s too bright, brighter than it’s ever been.
i walk for a long time. i come across a field that is a mix of golden corn and golden wheat growing side by side in a confusing, impractical mixture.
i see a man, dark skin and greying beard, in grey overalls and a grimy henley that maybe didn’t used to be grey but is now. he has a scythe in his hands, leaning back and swinging it through the mix of corn and wheat.
the wheat falls to the side and the scythe passes through the corn, leaving it unharmed.
“can you help me?” i ask. “i need to go home.”
the man startles, looking at me. “you shouldn’t be here.”
“i know,” i say, “can you help me? i can’t figure out how to get home.”
he stares at me for a long moment, then nods, digging a small hole in the ground with the toe of his boot. “here. you kept them, didn’t you?”
he doesn’t specify, but i know what he means. i take out the mostly empty water bottle and the torn plastic packets of the saltine crackers. i shouldn’t have eaten them. but it was the only way to get out the cave.
the man sighs, as if i’m tiresome, and takes them from my hands. he empties the saltine crumbs into the dirt, then pours the last of the water on top. he directs me to stand on top of the hole, and i do, and he kicks the dirt in around my feet. “they didn’t have to help you. you’re lucky they gave those to you.”
i am. i would not have gotten out of the cave without them. i would not be going home without them.
the man takes a step backwards, leans back, and swings the scythe through me.
then i wake up.
my bed is soft and warm. i wonder if i was the corn or the wheat.
~
my cousin has been two years younger then me our whole lives and she is two years younger than me when she dies. it is strange to think that for the rest of my life my cousin will not age and i will. i live on the other side of the country to her. the last time i was home, i had a bus to catch and she was busy talking to her boyfriend, so instead of waiting to hug her goodbye, i left and said, “i’ll hug you extra hard next time,” and the pain is too familiar to be sharp.
i dream we are in a beach house like we visited once as children, but we are adults. i am delighted to be here, with my family, warm and content and safe. my cousin is there and we’re floating in the pool and i look at her and my easy contentment falters. something is wrong. i put my arms under her shoulders and knees, like i’m supporting a child who’s just learning how to float, and she looks very still and peaceful until she cracks open an eye to grin at me. “oh no,” i say say, looking at her, remembering, “you’re dead.” disappointment flashes over her face. i wasn’t supposed to say anything. i wasn’t supposed to remember.
then i wake up.
i dream we at a garden we’ve never been to. it is bright and easy and the moment i see her, i know that she is dead, but she does not. i don’t tell her, i let her drag me to look at roses bloom, and try to feel for coldness in her skin, but it’s warm. i make myself smile and she doesn’t make me let go of her hand and it’s so very warm here. for the first time i want to stay, but it’s not even a choice. she looks down at our clasped hands and when she looks up, her lips are tinged blue. “oh no,” she says, and i’m reaching for her, to pull her in to hug her extra hard, but i’m not quick enough, “i’m dead.”
then i wake up.
can you forget you’re dead? i wonder. can you forget you’re alive?
~
the last stickysharp dream i had was over a year ago, and it was this:
i am at the beach with all my friends. i love them so much. it’s hot and and the sand burns my feet so we are sitting on the shoreline, damp and hot and laughing.
there is a bright flash of light. it’s a bomb going off. i don’t know how i know, but i do, and i run.
you can’t outrun a bomb, but i try, my first instinct to flee and the hot sand is burning my feet. it takes me too long to realize that no one else is running, that they’re all standing perfectly still, watching their death coming for them.
my friends are still at the shoreline. the first shockwave is coming. i don’t have enough time to run back to them, even though i want to.
i die alone
then i wake up.
~
i do not remember my dreams, generally, and i don’t put much meaning into dreams, generally
generally