My Mom and brother visited me last night as I dreamed. And boy, did they ever look swell.
Mom was in her late 20’s or early thirties, legs curled under her as she sat in a favorite chair, reading an ‘Agatha Christie’ novel. She asked me to go to the basement and get us a couple of beers.
“But Mom,” I complained, “you aren’t supposed to drink!”
“I’m cured of that since coming here,” she smiled, knowing she’d had the argument won before I even opened my mouth.
So I headed down stairs. But before I could get to the steps, I had to dodge every dog she’d had as a child, that we had as a child and every dog Adam and I had as an adult. And while it was joy to see them, they were really overjoyed to see me.
Finally, I made it to the basement, where there were lots of knickknacks, banana boxes with papers and photos, and mementos of all sort. But I was on a mission: get the beer Mom sent me down there for.
A 20-something Adam came though the side door, dressed in perfectly pleated khaki pants, a cream-color dress shirt, brown tie, and a royal blue weather-proof jacket. He smiled, “What’cha looking for Tom?”
“Mom sent me down here for beer.”
“Over there in the fridge,” Adam pointed as he sprinted up stairs.
With three bottles of beer in hand I started up after him…but I awoke before reaching the top landing. I was so looking forward to sitting on the floor in front of Mom’s chair like I did as a kid, talking, laughing and possibly crying, too.
Reflecting back on this dream, I must amend my opening statement – it is not they who were the visitors. No, it was I, visiting them.