Conversations in Dreams

Usually, I try to avoid digging into my old journals, because the content tends to scare and embarrass me. Good Lord, I used to write about boys (and booze) a lot. It is downright terrifying how often the subject matter was about a boy. What also scares me: Sometimes, looking back, I don’t quite remember what person I was even writing about. Sheesh. But, considering my love life was always kind of chaotic, it makes sense that I was constantly writing about it.

In the midst of all that boy talk, I also over the years have documented my consistent and frequent dreams about my mother. These dreams are so vivid, and so poignant, that I seriously considered—and still do—writing a book about it all. I have recounted all of these dreams by starting with the same sentence:

In my dreams my mother is still alive.

I wish that I had a written account of each time she’s visited me in my dreams, but even those I haven’t written down, I still remember rather vividly. However, until I read this one tonight (from January 2009), I had completely forgotten about it. To me, now, it is kind of hilarious and makes me happy. At the time, it was really telling, and I felt as though my mom was trying to scold me about something. I can't tell you what, exactly—that's between me and her.

This is what happened.

In my dreams my mother is still alive. Sometimes she is kind; sometimes she is harsh. Last night she was harsh.

“Alison,” she said, looking at me over her reading glasses, “I don’t approve of this place. I don’t like it one bit.”

She was sitting at a table drinking a glass of Merlot, eating a salad with enormous strips of bacon on top of it. She looked lovely.

I was waiting tables, and for some reason, there was an incredibly high rooftop where many people were sitting and drinking. My mom was sitting on the ground level below. I looked up, and my boss was leaning over the edge of the roof, yelling at me. Before I could reply, she tripped, and toppled over the edge, landing directly next to my mom’s table. Although the fall should have killed her, she simply stood back up and walked over to the bar.

My mom looked at her, looked at me, took a big bite of her salad, and said, “I don’t like this place one bit.”

I woke up that morning and immediately thought: “Did Mom drink Merlot? I hate Merlot.” Then I felt kind of evil for dreaming my boss fell off a rooftop.

But that doesn't really matter. Mostly, I like to think of my mom looking at me over her reading glasses, telling it to me like it is. It's a wonderful thought.