Dream

Night lays a hand on the window, and the kettle hums its small promise. I set my phone face-down, listen to the dogs settle, and breathe until the room remembers me. 

Outside, leaves loosen their grip without regret. Inside, I practice the same—opening my palm, not to let go of anything in particular, but to stop clutching at shadows left behind by thoughts.

Somewhere between the whistle of the kettle and the quiet after, a truth arrives without knocking: I am allowed to want a life that answers back.

The clock ticks its small permission as I slip into bed—naked to the night, like the day I was born. I close my eyes and feel the dogs’ warm weight as they turn, find their circles of comfort, and drift; I follow them into a dream where I walk alone down a windy cobblestone street, looking side to side for light, for warmth, for love. In the distance a soft glow erodes the darkness, slowly roiling toward me along the stones, and through its golden shroud I see bountiful trees and tall flowers—Gerber daisies, purple irises, sunflowers—like a fairytale opening its hands. 

A small cottage waits beside a babbling brook that threads past it, under it, and on; and there, just before the door, a man is waiting—someone I recognize though we have never met. His face is clouded, not yet ready to reveal its true self; behind that veil lives the giving-over, where fear, regret, and grief are gone. For now he remains hidden; the only enemy is knowing he exists.

I turn at the alarming sound; the walls of the dream fall away. I open my eyes, reach to silence the alarm, and meet bright, happy faces waiting to be fed. After the morning circuit—bowls, leashes, coffee—I stand at the window and remember. The dream drifts back in the slow procession of clouds across an early blue. I breathe deep and go on with my day, hope filling the hours like light toward a brighter tomorrow.