Searching in Dreams

The dreams have begun. I shouldn't really say dreams in the plural because there has only been one.

When my grandfather died, I repeatedly dreamed I could not get home. No matter which bus or train, car or by walking, I could not arrive to my destination. The dreams occurred quite frequently then stopped after a few months. They were always in black-and-white, and it would be raining. I could not see myself in the dreams, but in the travelling I could see familiar places along the bus route to-and-from Flushing, the only place I really knew how to get to at 17.

When Aunt Ada died a few years later, the dreams took on more of a lost quality. I had lost my shoes and no matter where I looked I could not locate them. In the closet, by the front door, under my bed, they were no where to be found.

Last night, I could not get home AND I could not find my luggage. The dream was in color. I was in a taxicab with my daughter, my green canvas suitcase in the trunk. When we arrived at the train station, the suitcase wasn't there. The driver searched and took us back to where he had picked us up but the suitcase still was missing. My daughter and I trudged on back to the train station without it, but kept missing our train. We always found ourselves at the wrong platform at the time of boarding.

Needless to say, my last night's sleep was unsettled and I don't feel rested this morning at all.