Letter Challenge Day Five – My Dreams
Dear Dream… You’re a little porch on a house with a garret. Inside is an older me with a glass of iced tea. I’m calling people up to invite them to dinner as I chide a Hobbit-looking child for clutching my leg too tight. I can do that because the house and the Hobbit are mine. Well, half mine. Because the ring on my left hand was put there by a man I didn’t have to drag to the altar with a pistol to his back. The house isn’t perfect, because half the fun is painting and decorating and fixing small things up here and there. I’m fond of you, dream. I don’t know if you’ll ever come true, but I’m glad to have you.
Dear Dream… I’m looking at you on the shelf in a bookstore, and my how fine you are! Maybe you’re not a best seller, maybe no one even knows about you and I’ll never make a dime off your pages. But you’re in print, standing proud among the other published volumes for me to pet and gush and swoon over, and my name is seared into your cover with blood. I mean, very nice ink.
Dear Dream… You’re an Irish holiday. The wind is strong and it whips my layers of old fashioned skirts. My boots are perfect for running about the countryside or dancing in a fire-lit room full of laughing, clapping family members. Whether I’ve found my Irish relations or not doesn’t matter so much; the point is that I’m there with people who love me as I love them. Maybe they’re not even Irish, but a whole lot of us took a vacation together and we’re doing our best to adapt to old Irish ways. In any case, you’re a lovely dream.
Dear Nightly Dreams… You visit me quite frequently. You’re the inspiration for many a one-shot and excellent story plots. You’re hardly ever uninteresting. But sometimes I have to wonder if something is wrong with you. For instance, why do you torture me with vivid images of lovely things only to snatch them away as soon as I regain consciousness? That’s a fail, dreams. A big fail. That auburn haired French lord with perfect… everything and a gorgeous accent you sent was very nice, but why couldn’t he stay? At the very least, couldn’t you let me see him again? I believe we were in the middle of some daring political intrigue. Do I ever find out that my husband’s not a neutral wuss, too scared to have an opinion on the deaths of many innocents? I know it, but dream me didn’t.
To my other dreams, the ones I made for myself; you are good ideas. I’ll keep you in mind.