I dream of you often lately. I have a strong sense that I am coming to understand you better. At least it feels that way in my head. I’m answering some of my own questions now as well –- viewing life through older and more mature lenses, it’s easier to see the human experience as a collective whole and embrace compassion without needing to understand. But anyway…in these dreams…I think I remember more than was ever present in my conscious. Or, maybe it is not memory at all; but desire. I’m not sure I will ever know, and I don’t even think that matters. It’s not really the knowing that burns in me; it’s more the desiring of a memory I can smile upon.

I carry a piece of you inside me now. I think it’s still rattling around in my head trying to figure out just how and where to perfectly perch itself upon my being. You always thought about things like that. But right this moment I am thinking tattoo. Which is the least likely way in which you would choose to be represented, but since this is my story, I guess I’ll do the choosing. And also, I think you’d get a good chuckle out of it after you blew your steam…just like you did with that Ketchup Incident; that time that ketchup somehow got splayed across the periwinkle-ish-like, felt-ish-like cloth that was the interior ceiling (do you call it a ceiling in a car?) of that oddly large and strangely colored car that you drove around for a while. I wonder if you remember that one? That sedan, particularly, was really quite different than any of the other cars I remember you driving around in. Maybe that was a hand-me-down from Grandpa John after he realized he had surpassed his sensible driving years. Or something like that.

Anyway, the Ketchup Incident was one of those times when your wishing-to-be-quicker-than-your-target arm flew back from the driver’s seat to the rear in a visually un-aided search for a leg to grab on to and squeeze as hard as you could. I don’t mean to rub this part in, but you couldn’t catch one that time. And you were not happy.  And then I’m pretty sure you laughed after your cheeks were no longer splotched in that red that I now know is indicative of your How-SWEDE-It-Is heritage (and mine too). And my leg did not get squeezed before or after your red face splotches came and went.

I don’t remember how long you had that car with the ketchup on the interior of nebulous color. Probably or maybe not long enough for my leg to ever have been caught or squeezed, and definitely not long enough for me to have ever been the driver…especially not for me to have been the driver when ol’ periwinkle insides could have been packed with teenagers doing questionable things and not what they told people they were doing. And not maybe going to the places they perhaps said they would surely be. And definitely not ever sometimes driving over the state line. Not in that sedan (if that’s what it was called). However; I’m not saying I did those questionable things at all, ever.  And even if someone stood up and swore on their talisman that I did…I know for sure it was not in the Ketchup Incident car. You didn’t have that car very long. At least not how I remember it.

2 Comments on “goldfinch dreams

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