Dreams of Home

I was riding a bike. Or gliding. Or doing that walking without walking thing, like characters in a Spike Lee film.

Whatever it was, I was doing it on the old street back home, where I grew up. In that place where dreams are made, it all looked like it did the last time I drove the drive and walked the walk so many years ago. The only difference was that it was all … older. The houses that were old then were absolutely ancient now.

I stopped in front of Mrs. Sales’ house. It was boarded up and weeds were the only residents. Her son, whose name escapes me, died several years ago if I remember correctly. As I watched the breeze blow trash across the remnants of brown lawn and dream-felt them brush my cheeks, I thought about her son’s car, his pride and joy. I remembered Mrs. Sales lending me her car to take my driver’s test and how proud I felt as I drove her car back to her house after passing.

The house I stood in front of in the dream had no memories of those days. It didn’t remember me, even though I could almost smell what it smelled like when I was little and my Nana and I would visit (since Mrs. Sales was one of her good friends).

I moved on but my dream-eyes lingered on the boards over the large front picture window. My dream-brain added an alleyway filled with bric-a-brack next to her house and I stopped by the fence that really isn’t/wasn’t there. I saw dog houses, barrels, and all sorts of other discarded things; my dream-face smiled at memories I didn’t have.

Yet and still I felt comforted by them, despite the growing chill of the dream-evening I was in. The sun was setting and I had to go. I didn’t want to leave because the memories had more to say. Before I could protest, I woke up with a desire to visit, to drive down the old street, stop at Mrs. Sales’ house, and remember …

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