Dreaming of Home

Dreaming of home sometimes makes me cry. I dream about one home in particular: Ukiah, the place where I grew up with my parents, Don and Rosemary. Only, they’re not in the dream. I see the house, the rosebushes on either side of the gate, the curvy sidewalk where I rode my trike, but not them.

It never occurred to me that was odd. Until today.

Yesterday, before I left Boise, my doctor was concerned I might have an infection, a major problem for people who’ve had knee replacements. A lab test seemed to allay his fears, so he cleared me to go ahead with my Rambles. 

After the drive from Boise, my knee and ankle were pretty swollen, so when I got to Marie and Ken’s, I elevated and iced it. They insisted I take it easy while they made me dinner. 

As I laid on the couch being taken care of, I had the strong sense of being home. Their nurture created that feeling. It had nothing to do with place. It was all about people. I felt loved. 

And that’s when I realized Don and Rosemary’s absence from my dream was odd.

Don and Rosemary loved me and nurtured me too, but ours was a complicated love made more complicated by their favoritism and my attachment issues. I did the only thing I knew to do. I left them emotionally, abandoned them to their other priorities. 

This, I think is one of my deeper thoughts that hides behind substitutionary tears. 

Did they abandon me? Yes, they did. But I also abandoned them. And when I go home in my dream, it’s too late.

Maybe that’s why I cry. Not because I’m home, but because there’s no one there.

I am blessed that Marie and Ken have made a home for me. As Rosemary told Marie years ago, I still have a mother after she [Rosemary] is gone. And I still have a place to go where someone is home.

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