Dream Journal

I have returned to my parents’ house. It is summer. August. The days that start clear and boil into thunder storms. I am there for my parents 50^th Anniversary. But that is later. My grandmother is in the hospital. It is serious. I leave the family to go to visit her. I go alone. I don’t want anyone to go with me. On my way, I stop at the Salvation Army. I want to get something new to wear. I spend a long time in the racks of dated styles, antique clothing. Everything suggests other times, other moments in my life. Memories. I leave there. I buy something. I don’t remember what. I want to prove that I have been there. I know that I need to get to the hospital. 10^th Avenue South is long and stretches out while I drive. I keep stopping. I go to the Burgermaster and get a Green River and a Flying Saucer. The Green River is like liquid neon, as if it is radioactive and sickly sweet. Near the hospital there is a giant statue of a cowboy. He is made out of plastic. He is grinning and poised to lasso something. I don’t know why he is there. Across the street is the adult book store. I go in there. There is a labyrinth of hallways, little rooms. All the pornography is straight. I can hear it layering, one movie over another, a symphony of grunts and moans. In the labyrinth I see a “real” cowboy. He appears and disappears repeatedly. His eyes promise something, suggest something. I want him. But he keeps disappearing. I wait in the semi-darkness. I wait a long time. I feel like the cowboy must be gone but then he emerges from a booth. He motions for me to follow him. I do. We have sex. I feel like I am late now. There is urgency. I arrive at the hospital. I have been there. I remember where the room is. I go there. An old man, snoring is in my grandmother’s bed. I am confused. I try to find a nurse. When I do, I am told that my grandmother has been moved to another place. I leave the hospital and find the new address. The rest home is on the edge of the city, where the regular geometry breaks up and gives way to the plains. It looks like my elementary school. No one is outside. There is a large flag rattling in the persistent wind. Inside, the halls are dark. Maybe my eyes need to adjust so that I can see clearly. Slowly the old people appear, slow motion, dragging walkers as if they are in quicksand. Or propped up in the corners in wheel chairs. I find the room where my grandmother is. I see that my mother is there sitting beside the bed. She is visibly distraught. Quietly distraught. “We had a good visit,” she tells me. “She was talking a bit ago.” My grandmother is not moving, not sleeping. Her eyes are partly open. They see without seeing. My mother and I sit wordless. Then she asks me, “Where have you been?” I explain nothing. I excuse myself. I don’t say anything to to my grandmother, to her shell. I drive back to the farm. A thunderhead is rising into the blue sky. When I get to the house my sisters meet me at the door. They are dressed in fancy clothes, ready for the party for my parents’ anniversary. But they are crying. My grandmother in dead. This isn’t murder, but it feels that way. Because I was fucking a cowboy I didn’t get to say good-bye. I wake up. 15 years later.