more about dreams and ghosts

Insomnia, 7

I  can’t sleep without this one boy in the room with me, without his busy, extended pale hands, without the dried hay smell of his crushed cowlick on my pillow.  In so many ways, he resembles a depressed spider, or the skeleton of a spider.  When I have a fever, I ask him to sit in my room and watch me, the blinds down at 4pm — the sun a strong and sickly yellow peeking around the edges of everything. I have the same dream I had when my mother used to watch me, wiping a tepid washcloth across my forehead: I’m lying in rowboat in a room with all the lights on, bowls of blueberries tucked under my feet and my head, the stench of flashy life-preservers making me wince.  Someone angry is pounding at my bedroom door, someone is trying to get in. Okay, the door yells,  Okay, okay. The door is orange, a large rubbery orange.  When I wake up, the boy is gone, the blinds pulled back, and the sun unmoving, burning my hands as it touches.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Jay St. Vincent (NoviceNaturalist)
    Apr 26, 2011 @ 12:28:01

    The blueberries here trigger an odd memory for me–not of a physical experience but of a reading. Essay or poem, I don’t remember which, but the image in it was of orphaned birds, ducklings I think, being tucked into bed against a feverish child, for the heat she offered them. Not as unlikely as bowls of blueberries, but still startling. (I just fried up a batch of blueberry donuts by the way–now I think those blueberries could have a more appealing and even useful function. Your bolws of blueberries image is with me for awhile now, and I am pleased about that.


  2. downtherabbit
    Apr 26, 2011 @ 14:17:53

    Wow — interesting comment. Thanks for sharing your memory.


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