I realized last night that one of the two recurring dreams that terrorized my childhood is a parallel for my current state. It must have mirrored my state then, at age 4-5 when the dream was frequent, and a few years on when it was occasional. I don't know what prompted last night's realization. I will respect it by writing the dream. I've done that before, as an adult, maybe once. There is someting primal at the core of this journey.
Why did the dream start, and stop? I remember it came, sometimes, every night for days or even weeks at a time. Then it stopped for w while, and came back. Always the same, except the location which changed once. At first, the bridge was on
Wilmot Road, just South of Greenwood. Then it moved to Hazel, between
Wilmot and
Broadmoor, just before Mitchell Pool. Alligators in an Illinois creek. Where did I get that at 4 or 5 years old?
Here goes.
I am standing on the bridge sidewalk with my sisters and mother. The bridge is small, and spans the creek. My father is notably absent, and is completely absent. No question about where he is, I don't know, I just know that he's gone. It's as if he's dead and gone, completely absent with no expectation for his presence. I am aware of his absence. Much like today.
We are dressed as if for church on Sunday, or an event of some sort. Not quite Easter or Christmas, just dressed up. My sisters are talking to each other, combing their hair and generally preening to each other. My mother is distracted, looking around, maybe nervous or anxious of something that only she knows.
The day is bright but overcast. No rain, just that white
Midwestern sky that is almost grey, completely blank and
uninteresting.
The bridge is strong and secure, and the guardrail is between me and the edge. Below, the creek water is dark, oily, turbulent, and writhing with alligators. I am aware of the danger in the water, and have no fear thanks to the strong guardrail set deeply into the bridge's concrete. My sisters and mother are paying no attention to me or the water or the alligators, they might be aware and indifferent, might be unaware.
And then, the boulder. Everything about it is huge. It is the size of a small car, it is bouncing as if set in motion from a great height. The noise of bouncing and rolling is deafening and frightens me to the bone.
I scream and yell to my mother and sisters that the danger is coming, the boulder is headed right for us. They don't hear me, or hear me and ignore me. I have enough time to try a few times, screaming at them together and each, that we have to move, the boulder is coming.
And then it bounces, rolls and crashes through the rail and continues off into the distance. The rail is gone, and me with it. I am clinging to the broken edge of the bridge with my tiny hands, hanging and screaming, the alligators actually swarming under me and snapping toward me, eager to rip my little body into pieces before devouring me. I can see what my body will look like being tugged and torn between competing alligators.
My mother comes over and takes my wrists, and I know I'll be OK. My sisters are looking on, as if this scenario is now somewhat more interesting than their mutual admiration of hair and clothes.
Then something is wrong. She is holding my wrists and hands, but she is not pulling me up. She is looking at me with some confusion, some disdain, as if she knows the weight in her hands is me, and it is a burden, and she's not sure whether daughter or
dead weight is more important.
I yell, "Pull me up, mommy! Pull me up! There are alligators down there and they are going to eat me!" I look at my sisters, they look back with eyes that say, "I wonder what will happen?" They are no help. I yell again, "Pull me up, mommy! Please!"
"I just can't right now. You're just too heavy. I'm sorry." And then she lets go of my wrists, and I fall, screaming, toward the snapping alligators and churning black water.
I wake up, every time, just before I hit the water.
