Early last spring I was plagued by a series of dreams.
It's not often that I remember my dreams, so the ones that I do stick with me and dance throughout my waking mind as chilling glimpses into my unconscious life. It's a life where time is hidden from me, but I still feel its urgency. It's a life distanced from events, relationships, issues, just as paper flutters nervously in a breeze. I watch the paper begin to settle, just to be snatched away again and whisked to the left, the right, spiraling with the seeming intent of finally skidding to the ground… I can't stop watching but my chest feels tight and begs me to turn away. I need to see this through. My hands are shaking and I'm losing motor skills. Left, right, spiral. I breathe deeply to regain some control and timidly inch my still trembling hand forward as if careful motion will fool the wind to my intent. I am one shallow breath away and then…gone. The dirt of the city no longer looks poetic and the release in my chest leaves me exhausted.
Days, weeks, months, later that piece of paper crept back. It told me a story.
I had to attend a sit-in to protest an upcoming trial involving an old girl friend from elementary school. I didn't even know what the trial was for but I felt uneasy asking anyone to fill me in, lest I expose my ignorance, but I did know I was due to meet a friend shortly. The building where the sit-in was being held stood heavy set and ancient before me. It could have been a transplanted Byzantine chapel, being used as a modern public service building. I began my journey through the stirring mass of people knowing it was my only hope of reaching the front doors. As I weaved in from the right I saw him emerging on the left, a flighty blonde in tow. A momentary pause sent me back towards the edge of the crowd so I refocused on my task and burrowed to the doors. It was much quieter on the other side of the glass and the tension of the crowd had been left behind. But I was starting to run out of time and still had the daunting task of navigating the labyrinth of this unknown gothic space to reach my meeting spot. Everyone looked fresh from prom, either joyously celebrating something (I can’t imagine what) with Champagne or sitting sullen on the floor in groups. A girl with whom much of my past had been spent was sparkling with the sweaty sheen of alcohol and tears, throwing up for onlookers. I continued on before she could engage me in the usually 'catching-up' fare. Corner after hallway after room, my chest was becoming tight. No one had seen him. What if he'd left with that blonde? I reach a room resembling the study of a professor, stuffed owls and quills collecting dust. I wait. And I wait. The numbness creeps back into my hands and as I begin to leave through a newly discovered doorway I hear his voice calling my name.
"I need to talk you about something."
Fast forward to his bedroom. The building is also a hotel. I stand in the doorway watching him pack his final suitcase, the one with the company logo seared into the leather. I am paralyzed.
Fast forward to the garden behind the public service chapel hotel. We stand in a clearing but I feel claustrophobic. He is silent so I emerge from my catatonic state just long enough to choke on my words.
"I can’t believe you're actually going…"
Then he smiles and for the first time all night I can breathe without a shudder.
Days, weeks, months, later I stand with a familiar tightness in my chest, exhausted from not sleeping, and a crumpled ball of paper rolls like a tumbleweed to rest against my shoe.
