Night Dreams.

Good morning all, This is Sunday Update, February 19, 2012.

You can probably see the morning is gone when this shows up, but it has become the usual practice here at #1805 of late. As I’ve alluded to before, everything slows down on Sundays, and I am no exception.

We  enjoyed a quiet morning here, Suzanne with her green tea and scones, and me with my coffee, bagel, cream cheese and bacon. What I consider an altogether nutritional meal. Meanwhile Brandy and Bailey content themselves with their daily ration of Purina Cat Chow and have repaired to their respective hiding spots for a nap.

Suzanne and I meanwhile were sitting and talking and I asked her, “You know, one time a while ago, you told me something about muses coloring one’s dreams, and I was wondering if you have anything to do with making up dreams to be visited on unsuspecting people like me to experience while they are sleeping?”

“She looked at me with that knowing smile that answered my question, and then she asked me, “Why Bobby, did you have a dream you want to tell me about?”

“As a matter of fact I did, and I will.” I said, and then proceeded to tell her the story of my last night’s dream, or was it early this morning, I’m never sure about the timing of such events.

“I was on a plane, a private jet, which tells you right away it must have been a dream for there’s no way I could’ve afforded such an extravagance. I had boarded and was the lone occupant bound for somewhere. That never became clear in my dream, as many things often don’t. I had my coffee, my paper and was settled in. We took off, and after about ten minutes or so, I must have dozed off. I don’t know how long I had been sitting there half asleep, but I then heard a voice that asked me, “Bob, how would you like a Bloody Mary? We have many hours left before we arrive at our destination, and you might enjoy it.” I opened my eyes, and there standing in front of me with a glass of that magic elixir was Joanie.”

“She was dressed much like you.” I told Suzanne, “She was all in white linen, and here hair was long, like it was when I first met her. It was shoulder-length long, thick, raven-like black with a natural wave that was luxurious to the touch, and it framed her brilliant blue eyes and that Irish complexion of hers perfectly. There was also this glowing aura that surrounded her, not unlike that which I noticed accompanied you when you arrived here.”

“What did you do?” Suzanne asked.

“I started to talk to her as if this was a normal happening. I told her I was now living next door to the motel and restaurant where her and I had first met. She asked me how Brandy and Bailey were doing, and if they liked where I had moved to, and if Bailey still tucked me in at night. How she knew Bailey did that, I couldn’t fathom.” She said she was aware that you had come to visit me, and she was happy about that. She had been reading what I’ve been writing, and was pleased that I was doing as much of it as I was, even though it didn’t pay very well. She knew it didn’t pay at all, but it seemed she wanted me to know my time wasn’t being wasted.”

“She told me she rather liked you, and the two of you had met sometime, or somewhere.”

Suzanne nodded, smiled and said, “Yes, Bobby, we have met. I think it was at Starbucks one day. I think she bought. She is also one of the reasons I haven’t told you about as to why I’m here.”

I went on, “We chatted a bit more, she wanted to know how her old friends in politics were doing, so I filled her in as best I could, and then something happened.”

“What,” asked Suzanne.

“I think the plane must have hit some turbulence, and I guess I came to. When I did, I looked around for Joanie, but she was gone, and I realized I must have dreamt the whole thing…but for one thing.”

“Which was what?” Suzanne said.

“I looked at the holder by my seat, and there was a half-empty glass containing a Bloody Mary.”

Take care, be well and keep in touch.

Bob

“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.”
–Plato

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About Bob Kallberg

Retired reporter. Concentrating now on recounting Joanie's 12 year battle with cancer, a battle she waged with extreme courage, determination and an indomitable spirit, that, for me, serves as an example.
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