This morning I asked my son if he had good dreams and he replied I never remember my dreams which is quite annoying, because our homework right now is to keep a dream journal.
I said Oh no! Maybe you can borrow some?
He answered in a resigned voice I doubt that is allowed.
This is one of the rare days I remember a dream, and it was about my aunt.
I was standing in her living room, blonde baby boy on my hip, and she was sober – this bit was historically accurate; she was clean a decade before her death. The room started filling up with people I never see because they live far away, like Jon Rietfors, and people I’ll never see again because of the choices they’ve made.
I handed the baby to my mother, who was laughing, and went from person to person, urgently trying to get their addresses and phone numbers. My aunt walked in the room and she was crying – something I personally never witnessed in real life, not after her accident, not any of the times I picked her up from jail or rehab, not when her mother died, never, not even smashed out of her mind.
Someone asked what was the matter and she said she had learned something about her boss that would force her to quit. I knew the job and sobriety were connected and tried to convince her that we could figure out a solution, but she kept crying.
Looking around the room for assistance, I noticed that more than half the crowd went to Evergreen. I held out my hand and said We can seminar the problem away!
They all laughed, at least.
Then I woke up and pulled the blanket up over my head, contemplating the alarming fact that even my subconscious is pragmatic. Though it was nice to see my aunt again.