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Dream Journal

“You know how you only see things in beginnings and endings?”

Her blank look from across the table says clearly she doesn’t comprehend; but at age eight or so, what can she know of starts, finishes, and long dry spells in between? How, at first, when fantasy meets reality, you think, “I could stare at this person or this scenery for hours, never grow weary, never look away;" but after awhile, it becomes, “Ho hum, another day in paradise.” The awesome view or person is still there, grown none diminished through time, waiting to be rediscovered when cut-off’s been declared—when you know your days are numbered, and you’d better breathe it in while able, certain you’ll kick yourself for years, that you’ll never again live anywhere—or with anyone—better; but certain, also, the beauty’s become wasted on you. You no longer have capacity to see it truly day-by-day. The only way to get it back is to let it go away, become forever a beloved memory. “Ah, yes. Once upon a time, I lived in Paradise.” What can she, in that eight-year-old cinnamon skin, have experienced to teach her of the value in having loved and Paradise lost?

“You remember the first time you went to the lake?” Again, her blank stare. Perhaps she’s yet to go. “Well, it’s . . . a body of water,” I say.

“My mommy and daddy took me to Europe,” she says, “to the water. They had pigs.”

I try to picture pigs, living oceanside, not a concept familiar to me; end up thinking how this itty-bitty girl can ski. Her athletic mother takes her down those slippery slopes, something I would never attempt. She has her world, and I live mine. Hers consists of Europe, pigs at sea, skimming down snow atop a ski. Mine, of always having to walk away, or lose all I can retain: a cherished memory.

“Open the box,” she says, pushing it toward me. I pull out the largest lizard I’ve ever seen, placing him cat-like on my lap, his long, thick dragon tail curled round, tip over-lapping.

“Wow. He’s amazing.”

“You keep him,” says she, “you have the right rug.” Turns out she doesn’t. Apparently, he needs to live on a carpet of certain colors, with patches of golden-brown and off-white. The rug where she resides is much different.

“Thank you,” I say, wondering how to care for the critter. I guess we’ll figure out, he and I together, what makes his palate hunger, when to lumber, when to sun, which days he’ll have to number to treasure ‘til he’s done.

***

It’s time to take out into the world what we’ve gained by living here, my lizard and I, where also resides the pile carpet with patches of golden-brown and off-white; time to scatter pollen from our castle-in-sky, our Corral de Tierra, land’s circle, closing in, which has cradled, rocked in comfort, rounded up small seeds of truth, has unearthed once again, deep buried treasures from my youth.

***

When Texas Street key passed from your hand to me, sorrowful tide swept through. Was it mine, or was’t from you? I had sensed I would love you but would suffer years of pain for having then to leave you to allow love to remain.