dreaming

Yesterday I awoke from a dream in which I was being photographed by a painter. We were in the vast expanse of his warehouse during a costume sale and the space was filled with the scurry of bodies rummaging through racks and racks of clothing. The painter adjusted a light and directed me toward a sheet-covered table. "Lie down and act like a mother," he said.

This morning I lay in bed remembering the beach of my dreaming. The sun was high and I stood by a low table painting long fanned strips of paper with R. A woman approached me, a stranger, and she and I began to discuss how children deal with death and loss better than adults. We discussed a particular tragedy involving an entire kindergarten class, in which nearly all of the schoolchildren had been killed, and how the few remaining children had dealt with the situation better than their parents.

R continued to paint, working off his hangover brought on by the previous night's drinking. As the hangover wore away, R's mood improved, his face brightened, and he smiled at me. He took me by the hand and led me away from the table. We laughed and I climbed upon him, piggy-back riding across the sand as he ran in zig-zags until I fell off. R took my face in his hands and we kissed slowly and deliberately under the bright sun. "Does Sarah ever make you cry?" he asked me.