A crazy dream...

I’ve always had very vivid, detailed dreams. My ex-husband used to love to hear me tell them when we both awoke, or often when I woke him because I was talking in my sleep. I guess he saw it as a mini advantage of being disturbed.

Not that the dreams happen every night, but this morning when I woke from a dream, it seemed so real that I still felt I was in the crowd near the bridge and it was only the noises in the house that brought me back to reality.

I do hope by blogging it, no one I know will want to commit me.

I was walking with a woman I had lunch with earlier in the week. Her children were not yet born but my daughter was about nine and was bouncing around in a cow girl outfit. Yet my walking partner and I were both the ages we are now. It was cool enough that we needed our jeans jackets over light sweaters, and although it was early fall, all the trees and bushes were a rich almost sparkly green.

We picked up a turtle, the small green back kind which were sold in Woolworth’s when I was a child yet I noted it didn’t have the red floral decal that was often stuck on the backs of the turtles by the store. We examined its underside (which was a beige-yellow) thoroughly while we worried that we must be gentle because we did not want to emotionally upset the turtle. When we put it down it scuttled at a pace no turtle had ever managed toward a hedge, but we were able to just retrieve it before it disappeared and put it back in the house where the turtle lived.

We continued on our walk and came to a walkway over a short stretch of water. It was made of white planks about eight inches wide and six feet long and a wooden fence that had two rows of brown wood (2x4s) to keep people from falling into the water. On the other side was a dark tan two-storey building with a pointed roof and dark doors.

“Let’s walk across to England,” my friend said so we did and came right back. It took only about five minutes. We were so excited we could walk to England.

When we got back I pulled out my camera. “Take a picture of me for my blog,” I said. In only wanted my back showing, and she kept moving my feet so they would be in certain places and look as if she caught me in the act of walking. I wanted to make sure she got the building on the other side. When I looked down through the slats, I saw white cattle mulling around at the water’s edge. Looking down made me uncomfortable.

Two small boys ran by pell mell and jumped off the bridge as if they were doing an Olympian long jump and I envied their agility.

“I’m sorry,” my friend said handing me back the camera. Although I was almost alone on the bridge when the photo was taken, it was full of people, banners and balloons, and it was hard to make out where I was.

“It’s okay,” I said. I didn’t want to feel bad and after I thought about it I realised the colour would much better on the blog than the picture taken which I told her.

My daughter bounced up to us. “Do you want to walk to England?” I asked.

No, she didn’t. I accepted her decision, although I felt she was missing out on something that few people got a chance to do.

(Since I only dreamed the photo, alas, I will not be able to post it with this blog.)