Dreams

I saw a girl in my dreams when I was a little boy.
That’s only as far back as I can remember. She’s an imprint on my mind from when I was younger than memory can touch, when I had infant’s dreams.
I can never remember exactly how old she is, or exactly what she looks like. I remember her dress. It falls just below the knee, and has short floaty sleeves hang just above the elbow. The dress is made of rainbows. I can’t remember if she’s wearing shoes. Sometimes I think she is. Sometimes I think she isn’t.
She’s always dancing, though. That never changes. She always dances. She dances through the places that don’t exist, the places in dreams. It’s hard to explain the dream-places. They’re bright and they’re cold and they’re beautiful and they’re grey.
As the girl dances, something moves around her feet. Fragmented rainbows. As I watch her dance, I realize she’s corralling them. Drawing them into a pile. Whenever this realization comes, it comes with a heavy sense of sadness.
She always stops for just a moment. Stops in front of me. Her face is so sad. Not old. Not young. Just sad.
“Never lose your dreams,” she says. “Always keep them close. Don’t make me gather yours, too.”
She touches my cheek, and I wake up.
I’ve carried the dream since I was a boy. I don’t have it frequently. At least a few times a year. I have a wife and kids, a job and a home. I’ve grown up.
But I never, ever lose my dreams.