I've been thinking a lot of a dream I had a few weeks ago that filled me with a sense of peace. My father was alive, and so was Popo. I was out at the farm, and Popo and I were going out to check the cattle, like he always did. So we got in a little aluminum row boat, and started paddling up the creek. Against the rippling slate-gray water under a pewter sky, with the autumn grass waving tawny golden in the breeze, we paddled around bends and turns.
We passed a farm perched on a small mesa of rich red earth on one bend, then traveled along the road a while. We met an Italian foreign exchange student leaning on an old wooden fence weathered to smooth ash and silver. His old black Model T had broken down, so we gave him a ride as far as the mill pond where we turned around to head back. The black cows were all munching sedately up and down the banks. There was no sound but the sound of running water.
Popo let me off at the thirty story glass-walled sky scraper that stood alone in the last field before his land. It was a community college building with a cosmetology and massage school, so I was going to the spa on the first floor for a manicure/pedicure. Then I walked back through the wind-swept fields, the pinkish gravel of the road crunching beneath my feet, and the rustle of wind through the dark live-oak leaves filling my ears.
For all the bizarre non-sequitur and nonexistent landmarks that my sleeping mind populated that familiar space with, it was an incredibly peaceful, comforting dream. I felt at home, and I felt so loved.
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