Dreams are fickle, they elude us. Once we dream, they are gone, and regardless of all our attempts to pick the dream where we have left it or to dream it again, all we do is to remember, and we add or take a few things from the original experience until it is nothing like it was; it is a memory made again, a memory of nothing. No more a dream than a fantasy.
I don´t know why I woke up thinking of you.
I was in this park or garden; the day was grey and the grass was neatly cut, like a football pitch I suppose, there were gentle slopes and happy flats, and small ponds, and these small squat trees, of a green that I can´t quite say was dark or if the dark hue was lent by the grey sky. There was this mother and son, and they looked very much alike, they even dressed like each other: auburn hair, very fair skin and fine pointy features, plain and slightly chinless. The boy stared at what seemed nowhere and the mother stared at the boy. Neither talked to me or seemed to notice my presence.
I sat beside the boy and the mother stirred, but did nothing. The boy sat still, his hands on a blanket of blue little petals that had been falling from the green trees, so many petals that covered the ground in fluffy patches. Some already discoloured by rot, others still blue. They looked like hydrangeas, small and roundish. It seemed natural that hydrangeas grew in trees, you know? As it was obvious to me that I was in such a silent, plain, orderly and dark place… Except for those blue petals.
The kid kept staring at nothingness and nowhere until I started to tug at the petals, cause I got interested in them, so fine, and delicate, and pleasant to the touch! I threw a handful in the air and they fell like tears, drifted like confetti and then fell like blue icy tears, catching all the light there was in a whiff of blue, sometimes dark flecked with gold, sometimes light, sometimes fading to white, and then to green, but they all rose to the sky and to the little wind and light that was.
The kid´s eyes were lit up with excitement, and the mother´s with anger, and still she did nothing. The kid did not care about me, only about the petals raining on us, and he made the petals pours from the sky too. They did not fly like butterflies, cause butterflies are ugly things with beautiful wings, they have antennas and spidery legs, and large eyes and bulbous hard bodies. Those were tears and rain, and I was happy and sad, dancing on the green grass of a grey park, with an unknown autistic red headed boy.
When I woke up, I wanted to go back. I wanted to call you to go back to that dream with me, to show you, to have you touch the blue petals, and see the dark shimmer of the boy´s hair. To have you feel the grass under your feet, and listen to the sound it makes when you walk and jump on it throwing and catching handfuls of petals. I thought you might know which trees were those, and what was the name of the flower. Or I just wanted to be with you and share those little stories you used to make about strangers you saw passing by.