just another day

 photo DreamRain03_640x_zps4d5df9e3.jpg

Photo from Dream Meanings
I returned to the base of Wind Mountain on a hike with friends, some old, some new. It was such a high, we decided to continue it. We chose an urban adventure this time, and around 4 o’clock the next morning we set out walking with our dogs, down the sidewalk along a neighborhood road, no particular destination in mind.
It was beautiful for awhile, what with the light of the morning creeping up, eerie at first, then floating, a thin glow barely on the horizon like hope showing itself from out of despair. People stepped unsteadily out of their houses, squinting in the mist in robes and curlers with coffee, cigarettes. And eventually kids began to be let out with basketballs and skateboards and some with nothing but trouble to cause.
We walked past one kid getting an old penny-farthing out from a garage. About the time he sped past us on it, I got a call on an old cell phone I no longer have. Yet there it was, the sturdy, silver Samsung flip-phone ringing in my hand. We all stopped and looked at the thing like it was a space pod. A kid screamed bloody murder, jarred us out of our trance. I shrugged and answered the phone.
An androgynous voice droned in my ear the news of my father’s death. I said, “What? My father died years ago!” and yet I cried and cried, tears which were a long time coming, ones I hadn’t cried the first time he died. And when I was done, I closed the old phone and buried in under a rock. There was no other way to take this but as a sign to return home, and thus was a destination made clear to us.
We cut across the salt flats and too many cities, mountains, and fields to count, until we saw the old dirt road up ahead. We hung a left onto it, and there, at the very end of the road, was the old homestead, like it was before it was renovated. The old carport was there off the cinder block base. And the huge rectangle of mostly glass that sat atop it and jutted out from it, had the old ramp slanting down from the sliding doors to the great eastern lawn, like freedom, like a dock to all of the Atlantic ocean.
My dog, Nova, and I went upstairs to find my mother, searched all the rooms for hours as the sky grew darker and darker, and by the time I gave up looking for her, I could see dangerous clouds coming down from Canada, each full to bursting with killing intent. I started toward the spiral stairs and caught a glimpse out the eastern windows. Rain was starting to come down like spears with blunt ends on a lawn strewn with smoldering briquettes and half-eaten hamburgers.
I ran down the stairs and out the door to the carport and found marijuana everywhere, some of it burned, some still fresh, strewn like a ripped-apart bale of hay amidst a wasteland of bitten-into burgers and hotdogs and buns. Rain spears were turning into streams from the sky and I looked outward from it all just in time to see my friends down the dirt road, leaving, high as kites and fat with food, and the one on the tail end of them was my oldest, dearest friend, and he must have felt the heat of my eyes on his back because he turned and grinned and waved a big, happy goodbye.
I whirled around and ran back through the door and into the house and I started back up the spiral stairs. I could see poor Nova stranded there at the top of them treading and circling all nervous and beside himself. He was on my heels as I ran down the hall and into the expanse of living room like a Nebraska prairie, and I could see it then, that the western half of the ceiling was soggy with moisture and the eastern half was beginning to sag and drip great handfuls of water and sodden drywall.
I looked out the eastern windows and could barely make out the silhouette of my mother at the clothesline trying to hang clothes up through walls of rain. I crossed the soppy carpet to the sliding doors to tell her the house was coming down. Nova wouldn’t come. I had to go back and pick him up in one hand and manage the sliding door with the other. We scarcely made it out and down the ramp to the grass before the doors fell outward onto the ramp.
I hollered to my mother, “We’ve got to go Up On The Hill!” and then I ran around and down under the carport and into the house that way to my room to gather up clothes to take. Nova jumped up onto the bed and curled up like it was just another day, then my mother wandered in, dry as a bone.
Neither of them saw the wall of water coming down my closet, drenching half of my clothes, making it impossible to choose outfits that made any sense. Neither sensed the urgency of the situation or the severity of my distress, and in the screaming madness of that, I was forced awake, solitary but sound, to just another day.
157x51 photo SS-1.jpg
Click here for more on prompt #384 – Solitary from other Sunday Scribblings participants.


2 Responses to “just another day”

  1. August 26, 2013 at 5:16 am

    I wonder whether a dream like that is finally letting go and saying goodbye that perhaps you had been reluctant to do before. More likely our brains have recycle bins too and yours told you to check it out! It was a great read.

  2. August 26, 2013 at 12:13 pm

    Now that is deep! A fascinating read.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: