I was washing a plate by hand in the sink. With suds covering my fingers, I peered out the window and noticed the familiar view. But it wasn’t a recent view. I was back at the first house I ever lived in. I recognized the sink and the surroundings. We were back — our excursion to Florida must’ve failed and we returned to Massachusetts. Does that mean my dad is still alive? It feels like he is.
Tears started welling in my eyes. I felt so sad. Being back means my balcony’s gone. I love my balcony. It’s where I’ve sat everyday for the past few months since we’ve been here, gazing across the treetops and marveling at the clouds and their many shapes. It’s where I contemplate life and practice presence. I can even see my little boy’s school from there, oftentimes hearing the clamor of recess.
Sensing my own sadness, my mind made an ocean-view appear out of another window — and I was comforted. I could see the gentle white-topped waves rolling into the warm tan sand. I suppose the ocean would be an acceptable swap for clouds and treetops. Yet my logical mind kicked in and said “Hey! That’s where the backyard usually is. There’s no ocean, it’s merely a mirage!” I was sad again.
I woke up. My eyes opened to the very balcony I missed in my dream — and I was comforted. I feel very much at home here, much more than that first house in my dream, a house I lived-in for nearly three decades — yet it never felt like a home. I don’t know where we’ll be in August of next year. In my mind I see myself here, living the quaint and cozy suburban life.
Who knew that’s what I wanted? But the thought of having lost it made me nearly cry in my dream. I suppose it solidifies how much I care about where I am right now. I’m not scared of losing it, I’d just be disappointed if I did. Then I rebuked my wallet. I sternly declared: “How dare you not provide the ample funds I require! My family and guests deserve better!”. My finishing move was a flying-elbow, the double-bill-fold flew open and landed face down on the floor. I guess I won.