In my dream, the love of my life had betrayed me. But that wasn't the nightmare part. It was the rage. My rage. When I figured out that he'd lied, and other close friends had been in on the deceit, it was like I was possessed. I screamed, I threw things, I broke dishes. People around me tried everything to calm me down, with no results. I was beyond reason, far away from the here and now. I was my father. And it completely freaked me out.
The dream was so vivid that when I woke up, I didn't get that blessed relief feeling--I couldn't shake it. My worst nightmare, so real. So I did what you're supposed to do in times like these: I went outside, with my dog, and watched her be a dog. A dawg. I threw, she retrieved. In the pond, over and over and over. A dog doing what she was put here to do, what she loves more than anything, what she truly can't resist. Throw it, jump in, swim, bring it back. Throw it, jump in, swim, bring it back. A cycle of instincts. A cycle of doing what feels right. Letting it flow. Letting it go. Eagerness, excitement, joy. Water droplets everywhere.
I've been so bound-up lately. Trying ineffectively to keep up with all the end-of-the-schoolyear details, help support my mom, manage the still-overwhelming crush of feelings from my trip back in time. I just get tighter, tighter, tighter. What I need to do is remember what I was put on this earth to do: sit on the porch, drink a tall glass of iced tea, and tell a darned good story. I'm a southerner. It's what we do.
I always swore I'd never own a dog. Now I truly don't know what I'd do without her.
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