Dreams

January Day Christmas 2009

There's a still room for you.

Come in.

Patrick and I play mini golf at an empty fancy country club. Everything is plain and green. Pete Hornberger tries to tell my brothers and I something about Mom in a roundabout way. I realize he is saying that she died because she was really sick. I tear up, I think I can see myself, my face distorts. I can't handle this news. It surprises me. We're in a different small city. Sort of familiar. Oldish white stone buildings on Main St.
Mom drives me and Tim down a highway out of town. There are trees on either side. She tells about someone she works with, who commutes over 150 miles to work every day. Mom and I get into a huddle and start to calculate how much she pays in gas, if she get's 20 miles a gallon, then we try to remember what she drives.
Good Friday
I am on a large wooden deck in the backyard of a rich family. A toddler boy walks up the stairs to me holding what I think is a toy grenade. Over near the playground his father casually explains that it's a live grenade, and I panic and grab it, but I think I drop it, then the father tosses it onto a pointed metal pole. The grenade is pierced and slides down, stops at the bottom, then releases air from the hole and flies up off the top. This is not explained, but I guess it wasn't real. There are two girls playing on the playground, swinging maybe. The father does something with the wooden swing set and water falls out of it like rain. The are two smaller swings with feminine products or something on the seat that their mother put there for the girls. I want to swing but not touch the stuff.
Ash Wednesday