Dreaming

Of Places to Go

My waking days are spent on a concrete campus, behind the counter of a fast-food place, and where they begin and end: my grandfolks' little craftsman cottage uptown. But in my dreams I visit secret places: lush rain forests, red rock caverns, sparkling beaches by emerald waters with views as far as the eye can see. No one knows about these spots except me. They aren't on any map.

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Of Thinking Big

My grades are weak; I'm no Einstein. It's a lack of focus mostly. Plus, the required study time just ain't worth it. Lost in a REM state, though, I'm Magna Cum Laude. To any question, comment, or debate; I produce answers, witty retorts, sophisticated jokes. It's like my brain synapses suddenly spark and fire, and facts and ideas flow from me like lava. Uncustomary displays of brilliance.

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Of Making All-League

I'm not a baller. Was among the first cuts at hoops tryouts. My skills are okay, but I lack the necessary athleticism. Yet in my dreams I don't jump as much as soar, my legs pumping air as if ascending an invisible staircase that only ends when I flush the ball through the rim. No fooling, I'm a dunk contest super freak.

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Of Being a Stud

On campus, Debbie Fontana knows she's hot. She struts with bravado, turning heads wherever she goes. In class she won't speak to me. Passing in the hallway, she won't look at me. But alone in bed, after I drift off, she whisks me into the janitor's closet or an empty classroom, tears off my clothes, and has me do things to her I've never done before. Things I never even imagined possible.

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Of What Was a Family

Aside from my grandfolks, a few friends from school and the DQ, there's no one who cares much about me. And Grandma and Grandpa and my daytime pals aren't about to confide in me their deepest thoughts and secret longings, and nor would I in them. But when dreaming, my parents visit and intimacy returns. We celebrate birthdays, picnic in the park, work in the yard together. I tell them how things are going and Papa offers advice and suggestions, Mama a hug and a kiss. On the Fourth of July, we light bottle rockets over the lake, just as we did that night. Only this time my parents aren't drinking and speeding off early, telling me to get a ride home with the Willinghams. This time we stick together and high-five whenever a rocket explodes. But then I get a funny feeling and ask how they found me again. The coroner, I explain, said you both died upon impact—that you never felt a thing. Wake up, wake up, or else you'll be late, Mama says. Wake up, wake up, she says.

I always fight her off until she becomes Grandma and by then it's too late.

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words: Roland Goity, California (litnimage)
image: Smitha Murthy, India (Life Wordsmith)

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another blueprintreview dream: The Way it Should be