My father dreams of flying, circling with gulls among the billowing sails of the clipper ships pulling into harbor. He recounts his reverie in giddy excitement over a cup of coffee, his hair still tousled from the whipping wind.
My sister dreams of a haircut undesired. “You’ll need to cut it all off if you want to leave this place.”
My neighbor dreams of chocolate, a bathtub full of the good Belgian stuff that his grandmother used to give him when his mother wasn’t looking.
My friend dreams of the perfect wave, curling into a never-ending barrel she can ride into the sunset.
My grandfather dreams of angels in the clouds. They stroke their lyres and call to him. The warm light of a life well lived floods his bedroom.
My boss dreams of sleeping in, and having breakfast with his family. But the alarm sounds and he’s off into the dawn.
The woman sleeping in her car in front of my apartment building dreams of a time before. There had been a fire and a family. But no longer.
My cat dreams of lizards, scampering across his eyeline and dying with grace as he tears their bellies to shreds and purrs with pride.
I dream of losing all my teeth. First they fall out, one by one, before pouring from my mouth in a torrent. What does that mean?
You tell me your dreams when you wake up, huddled close for warmth. You tell me that you dream of adventure, of sleeping in, of flying, of a cozy winter night. You tell me what your dreams mean. Who am I to say if you’re right or wrong?
Who am I to ask, that you dream about me.
