I was counting the days until I will come outside this place. Brushing my teeth at 4:30 in the morning I said aloud, "28". I loaded what I needed into the truck and drove east. I had hoped to see a particular canyon as the sun rose. Driving into a black only punctuated by bright stars, I began thinking of the number 28. I remembered my mother's 28th birthday. Karen Tate was to be our babysitter as our parents were to go out to dinner.
Karen had a gentle disposition and one felt completely at ease and welcomed in her presence. I remembered my mom and dad walking down the steps into the living room. They were the same steps I dreamed I could fly down, floating slowly, and the same steps that were the location of early nightmares, and also of where me and my sisters used to illicitly listen to grown-up conversation when we were supposed to be asleep.
Well, my parents looked so fine. My dad wore slacks and a crisp button down shirt, my mother a black dress with a gold waist chain. As I drove more details emerged. A new, yellow car as a gift, the azaelia tree in bloom. I remember being excited for my mom on her birthday.
My truck began the ascent into the mountain, the sky began to lighten in a rich and varied azure. I wondered if Mary was alive then, she probably was a toddler. As I drove upwards I let the memories swirl free of chronology, of these three; Mary, my father and Karen Tate. In the canyon I spoke to them.
note; the picture is older than the reverie
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