The Dream, by de Chavannes
***
Last night I dreamed about you. These days I don’t let thoughts of you stay long when I’m awake.
You had a new wife. She was obviously stupid, but then, she’d have to be. Of course, she knew nothing about me.
You’d been through some terrible experience that left you like a child, brain damaged, blank. Your house was a remote cabin. Your son was waiting for you to attend to something, but I’m not sure you knew who he was -- though he was a child again, too.
He was more open now, no longer cooler than everybody.
You sat on the floor in the middle of the living room, naked from the waist down. No one thought this strange. I was floating through the air as usual. No one thought this odd either.
Your wife kept patting your shoulder, muttering mindless stuff meant to comfort you. You were oblivious. You babbled nonsense, baby-talk.
You were no longer who you were. I felt the loss of that, and let myself. You seemed somewhat defenseless, but I couldn’t bring myself to punish you, though I remembered you deserved it. I just kept floating around, watching.
Your son and wife, who didn’t know each other, didn’t seem to find all this the least dramatic.
I woke up, and felt mometarily sad. I usually don’t let myself feel sad about you long; I didn’t this time, either. But I didn’t jump back into hating you right away, like I normally would, now that you’re less real to me than the dream was. A dream is your only unguarded path for getting near me now.
I am beginning to be less afraid you’ll try some other path. And I am less inclined to mentally rehearse the moves I’d have to use to shoot you down.
-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey
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