Fever dreams

Fever dream

My dreams have always been ordinary. Modest, even.

Awake or asleep, doesn’t matter.

I dream of being happy. Of finding the kid’s lost library book. I dream the ultimately and unmistakably possible.

Once, I even dreamed I’d bought stamps. Not even the fancy kind. They were the flag-bearing ones that could stick around forever.

Unsurprisingly, I proceeded to spend the better part of an hour, on bill-paying-day, turning out the contents of drawers and cabinets and pocketbooks I might have used within the fortnight, looking for a panel of stamps that never existed.

No transaction. No receipt. And, decidedly, no postage for this bill that was already overdue.

And I was so sure I went to the post office.

It’s startling to me to think about how many memories and life experiences I may have literally dreamt up.

There are untold numbers of conversations that took place only in my imagination.

How far back does this go? I wonder.

Did the neighbor boy actually train my pet milk snake not to bite me?

Did my dog steal a loaf of Freihoffer’s Split-Top White off of a delivery truck because she overheard my mom saying we were out of fresh bread?

These are memories I always thought to be true. They have even gone down in the family lore as undeniable fact.

Besides, my dreams are never that vivid. 

This dream was different:

We lived in a big house that was like our house but not.

In a neighborhood that was like our neighborhood if it was shifted a few streets over and shoved into another climate. Maybe rainforest. Maybe unfrozen tundra.

An old college chum and his gang of merry alumni pals came out of the blue for a visit. They had grey beards and guns. And they preferred to hang around a fire pit taking selfies.

I’d seen such gatherings on Instagram ... so I know they were possible.

Kids, teachers, coaches and other people were milling about, making small talk. I couldn't be sure if it were a party or a conference. The vibe had elements of both.

Except for the watercolor edges, the dream had all the earmarks of a comfortable memory mixed with a dash of late-night scrolling of social media sites before sleep.

It is at this point dreams tend to go sideways.

There was an attempted break-in. I escaped, taking flight into the neighborhood.

I drove around the street on a short bike - my knees brushing against my shoulders as I peddled. There were gigantic box turtles everywhere - crossing the road like worms after it rains. Then a fox came out of nowhere and scratched me. I tried but couldn’t avoid him.

It started to snow.

I was panicked. Sweating as I peddled faster toward my unfamiliar home.

When I got there and breathlessly recounted all that had happened, my dream husband asked me if I had attempted to pet the wild creature. 

Of course, he would ask that. He would think I was capable of rescuing a Vulpes vulpes, bathing him and uploading 43 pictures of the process to Twitter.

“Of course you would think it was all my fault,” I said to my groggy husband, awakening now to the after effects of my dream.

And for the briefest of moments, I wondered if I should get a rabies shot.