Carolyn's dreams of a storybook marriage were shattered by an abusive husband with a gun. We lost track of Jake. And my dreams died silently inside my womb on a beautiful winter morning. My despair annihilated what dreams I might have had left, turning my consciousness into a silent, dense bleakness. I stopped dreaming, grateful for the oblivion of sleep.
I had come back to the summer house because I wanted to be alone with my grief. I wanted to wrap myself in a shroud, suffocate my anger, and quietly fade into the background.
It was sheer bad luck that Jake was renovating his parent's house next door. Once a shy boy who never said a word, Jake was now outspoken in his insistence that I rejoin the world. He invited himself over. He brought me dinners, and fussed until I ate. When I finally hollered that he should leave me alone, Jake had grabbed a blanket from the couch and dragged me into the backyard, where we now lay.
"Do you ever dream anymore?" Jake asked.
"No," I finally answered. "I don't dream anymore."
Jake wasn't looking at me, he was looking up at the night sky. He pointed at some distant constellation, and my eyes followed.
"Some of the stars up there died a long time ago. They're nothing but cold, dead rocks now. But the light they once gave keeps shining, night after night. There's comfort in that, I think."
"So?"
"So, Lisa," Jake squeezed my hand, a lifeline in the darkness. "Maybe you should start dreaming again."
 |
| Photo courtesy of http://writeonedge.com/ |
I am trying some rearranging out for size, well, just because. One of those things is making sure that I remember to link up with Write At the Merge.
