Dreams of Home

I was riding a bike. Or gliding. Or doing that walking without walking thing, like characters in a Spike Lee film.Whatever it was, I was doing it on the old street back home, where I grew up. In that place where dreams are made, it all looked like it did the last time I drove the drive and walked the walk so many years ago. The only difference was that it was all … older. The houses that were old then were absolutely ancient now.I stopped in front of Mrs. Sales’ house. It was boarded up and weeds were the only residents. Her son, whose name escapes me, died several years ago if I remember correctly. As I watched the breeze blow trash across the remnants of brown lawn and dream-felt them brush my cheeks, I thought about her son’s car, his pride and joy. I remembered Mrs. Sales lending me her car to take my driver’s test and how proud I felt as I drove her car back to her house after passing.The house I stood in front of in the dream had no memories of those days. It didn’t remember me, even though I could almost smell what it smelled like when I was little and my Nana and I would visit (since Mrs. Sales was one of her good friends).I moved on but my dream-eyes lingered on the boards over the large front picture window. My dream-brain added an alleyway filled with bric-a-brack next to her house and I stopped by the fence that really isn’t/wasn’t there. I saw dog houses, barrels, and all sorts of other discarded things; my dream-face smiled at memories I didn’t have.Yet and still I felt comforted by them, despite the growing chill of the dream-evening I was in. The sun was setting and I had to go. I didn’t want to leave because the memories had more to say. Before I could protest, I woke up with a desire to visit, to drive down the old street, stop at Mrs. Sales’ house, and remember …

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