In this dream, I
meet friends at a farm. We are going to work. I have brought many
large fish I caught in the ocean; later we'll have them for dinner.
My mother is there to welcome me. I wear my father's clothes, his
stiff denim jacket and jeans, his heavy boots.
We go to work, but
it begins to rain. It is the dark of rain in Ohio at the equinox, the
year turning toward winter.
Now we must drive
through the city, the steep hills and traffic of San Francisco. I
drive my father's old loud truck, its low rumbling gears. I am good
at it, we make it through the austere canyons of the city, its
garbage and self-interest.
We return to the
farm, but now it is surrounded by the city. It is a small plot
bordered by chain-link fence. The sun is hammering the hard-packed
soil, the yellowed leaves, the dry grass. We stand around the wilting
plants in their beds, our hands empty, unsure what to do now. The
city noise rising around us.