My entire life, or at least the parts that I remember, I have had a recurring dream but I had almost forgotten about it since it hasn’t popped up in a couple of years. I had it again last night.
The dream is black and white and I am in a village. It’s grey and almost foggy and very quiet and all of our clothes are as grey as the air. I, along with the villagers, am carrying boxes of supplies down to the dock. Everyone has their head down and walks slowly and it looks like a depressing place to be though I don’t feel depressed. Once all of the boxes are at the dock, the villagers load them on to my raft and then they push us off. The raft contains me, the boxes of supplies for the journey, and a small grey kitten. As the raft floats further from shore and I am swallowed up by the fog I wave to the people standing on the dock. They all wave back, their hands moving slowly and no one speaks. I float on the sea for days, just me and the grey kitten, and I can’t see more than a few feet around the raft as the fog is still heavy. Eventually, the side of a great ship appears in front of me out of the mist. I am down on the raft looking up and I am tiny beside it. Suddenly a huge figure appears on the edge of the ship and looks down at me. He is dressed like a pirate complete with a large floppy hat and wooden leg. I have to crane my neck sharply and look straight up into the sky to see him because the ship is so big, and I know for certain that this is my Uncle Pete. I am not scared or excited, I am simply there. I have arrived.
That’s it.
Before anyone asks, there is no one in my family named Pete. It’s a weird, forlorn, kind of depressing looking dream and yet it doesn’t make me sad. Actually, it doesn’t make me anything. Just like the arrival at the side of the boat, it’s just kind of there. It’s one of those strange constants like a gag reflex or double jointed thumbs. A part of me finds it’s consistency comforting because I’m like that. I can appreciate consistency, even when it doesn’t make sense.
