No one wants to hear about your dream. How vivid and compelling. How it shakes you still, that image, this morning over coffee and conversation. This conversation is over; let's talk about me.
I had a dream of frogs in my house. I told no one, but Google says frogs mean fortune or fear. Just like everything in life.
Confession: In a book or poem, when I come upon a dream sequence I always skip ahead.
Don't tell me your dream. I'll have to feign interest and that wears us both. Well, not you. You look perky, and I just wanna go back to bed.
In the year since my mother died, I've dreamed of her just once. I woke up reassured. But I did not write the dream down and now she's gone again.
Dreams are vague and real, foreboding and foretelling. Dreams mean nothing. And everything.
Yesterday an old man with sad eyes told me his dream:
He and his dying wife return to the island where they honeymooned 60 years ago. They are happy, she is healthy and young. "She is just like she used to be," he says, with a strained smile and tears.
Hushed and slow, like a prayer or a plea, he offers his vision and I accept the gift.
Okay, I say, tell me more.