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-- to live a dream --
I have a dream—and it never ends.
I do not want it to.
I ready myself, for the moment is near. Soon is the place of transitions, the place where it all ends, where it all starts.
… not really. I do not want it to.
My hands turn the wheel, and my feet press the pedals …
Soon, soon …
Now!
The car in front brakes hard. I hear screams of people and metal. I see the driver's feet as he
crashes through the windshield.
I swerve to avoid the incoming truck, my foot gunning the brake. We hit the concrete barrier at about 60 mph. The car takes flight with a bang of airbags, and my stomach hits my throat. We’re upside down and falling over the edge. She claws at my hand. I battle with the steering wheel. She screams.
And the dream is done. I tear at it, at the memory embedded in my head. Nothing is more important than this. Nothing is all I have left. I must go to where it all begins. It can't end like this.
Not too far back, minutes perhaps.
It costs me dearly, but it's easier now than the first time, and the dream starts anew …
The smell of freshly mown grass comes first, and then the sound of a jet flying overhead. I have to take her to the airport. I have to lose her again. An emptiness grips at my core, but then she walks out of the house; her luggage, my heart, in her hands. I reach for her, hug her and never want to let go.
She whispers my name and warns me she'll miss the flight. I hold her at arms length and look at her freckled face, at the small dent in her teeth where she once wore braces, and then into her eyes and feel alive again.
She smiles and makes it all worth it.
Nothing else …
#
Around him, the machines hum, and buzz, and keep him alive. The doctors don't understand why. There’s nothing wrong with him as such … but it’s a shame about his wife.
-- to dream a life --
A figure sits by his bed, each and every Thursday between 4 and 6 pm. She holds his thin, cold hand and listens to the weak pulse tenaciously beat on. Her room isn't far from his. She combs her hair to the right to cover the scars that mar the side of her face—and sits to his right so he won’t have to see them if, when, he wakes up.
His heartbeat rises slightly … it usually does at this time of day.
She waits, a spark of hope in her eye. He is dreaming.
She whispers his name, again.
A flutter, nothing more.
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