Celebration

My foot is still shooting up pain to the rhythm of the old woman shuffle with Zimmer frame. I don't believe one iota that the pain should be growing worse after all this time and after strapping it up and resting when I can.

Hard to believe that it's September. Summer is blowing on a distant breeze.

I had another series of strange dreams.

I was at the house, my father long dead and buried. The house and yard were dark. Rubbish and recycling bins overflowing. Mailbox clogged with letters, cards, overdue bills and decaying advertising material.

There was a party being held out the back, friends of my sister, brother and mother invited. A tall thin man with thin black glasses wearing a light checkered blue shirt kept hovering around me looking for opportunities to garner my attention and small talk. I did not know this man or many of these people in my yard, though my family moved through the crowd with ease. Nor did I care for this man, his attention and his blatant fondness for me.

I kept searching the faces of the guests for someone familiar to chat with. To be in company with. Searching for Chris.

A platter of cold meats, cheeses and fruit made rounds of the guests. I snared a cube of what I thought was cheddar cheese and popped in quickly in my mouth. Of all the horrors I have experienced in dreams, the vile taste of that cheese was the heart of the most atrocious and fearsome nightmares known to man. So I proceeded to dream spitting out that abominable excuse for a savoury bite as discreetly as possible. No luck. That man rushed to my side and started touching my arm. I excused myself and spent a good portion of that dream throwing up into a familiar toilet, one I spent a great deal of time acquainting with as a dieting teenager.

I've washed my hands and walked into the hall. No man. Sigh of relief. I'll blow this party and hole up in my bedroom like the old days. Boot up my ancient 486 and jot down some thoughts. The room is still much like how I left it all those years ago but has accrued more adult possessions and disorganisation. Crisp packets litter the quilt of the bottom bunk.

Knock on the door. Before I could answer he already invited himself in. I couldn't really tell him to get out, despite the fact it's my bedroom, my home and not my guest. It would be rather rude of me. I'll get in trouble. So I up and leave.

The wind has blown the window in, in the kitchen. My German Shepherd is outside barking off her brain. The party has moved on to some place else so I am free to go outside. I look over the fence and see my old Italian neighbour pottering around in his yard. Except it seems he has ceased to cultivate row upon row of Zucchini, Roma Tomatoes and the like. Even the odour of coffee beans roasting and being grounded in his garage no longer teases. I look at where his vegetable garden used to be, which not surprisingly, had encompassed the whole of his yard, to find pens of poultry gaily clucking away and scratching the dirt.

The feathers were bright, clean and groomed. The fowls quite jovial. Gigantic white eggs rolled about and cracked open to reveal chirpy chickens eager to grow and live. Excited I called out for the guests to come and see, even that man. No one came.

I went back inside and flopped silently on the couch.
"It's okay. It's okay," a familiar voice repeated., "I'm not going. I'm here. It's okay." Chris' arms wrapped themselves around me and we nodded off to sleep.

In reality my alarm was ringing.