Last night I had a dream about a place I used to live. I’d driven up to the front of the small town parsonage, and out of the car in front of me, which had also pulled over and parked on the street, came the oldest son of the pastor who had lived there before us. He was only a boy when his family moved away, but now, in the heart of my dream, he is grown.
He wore a red sweater. We met in the road and we paused to say hello. I wasn’t expecting him, nor had I planned on meeting him there. He barely remembered who I was when I told him, but given his age at the time when he moved, I wouldn’t think he’d remember much of anything of me. We had only both arrived at the same time to come back.
But why does the dream always know where to end? The alarm went off at 5 AM. We never made it up to the front of the house, never made it back inside the home where we had lived. We’d only seen the outside, and the likes of one another, familiar in the fog of the overhanging streetlights, just long enough to know we had found the right place.