I don’t remember what point it was in the dream that you called, just that from early on, I was holding the phone and you were on the other end, silent. Silent with a silence so pregnant I could feel you thinking, could feel the force of your thoughts ballooning out toward me, but I was trying not to guess them, trying not to second-guess you. I was trying to wait for you to tell me, to be honest and share with me the full scale of what you were thinking.
All through the dream, all the while we were silently on the phone – not talking – I was standing in a park full of children. It was cold, November maybe, and the sand in the park playground was frozen, a solid tawny mound. The sun shone now and then, and a wind blew, while children screamed and ran back and forth. The opposite to our silence. My mother was there, and my son, too.
While my mother watched my face – I could feel her searching for the same answers I was, the answers only you could give – my son and the other children ran back and forth, oblivious, carefree. It was the way I longed to be.
There was no closure to the dream, though I didn’t wake up. The dream simply faded, in an end-scene way, with you still silent, always just about to speak, and me waiting, my hand cold by then, cramped around the phone. There was no answer, no resolution to questions I hadn’t even spoken, simply a fading to black.
And I don’t even know who you are.