| Subject: Dreams |
Author:
Holly
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Date Posted: 22:25:00 06/22/01 Fri
I am riding Spec, or is it Chelsea? I am not sure which chestnut mane is behind those pointy ears, but I know it belongs to Spec or Chelsea. I am dreaming, and I know it, and I don't care. I can smell the ferns and the moss and the sweet smell of flyspray on horse sweat. I can feel Spec or Chelsea springloading beneath me, both of us anticipating raceway. It's a visitation dream. Both horses have been dead a long time, and I miss them. And raceway. These are the dreams that make mornings hurt.
These are the dreams that make me want to stay dead. Sometimes. Not all such dreams are visits from the dead, although once my Uncle Mike told me flat out that I couldn't stay and had to, "Get the hell out of here!!!" when I'd gone looking for him the night after I'd found him taking care of the Prophet (they'd died within two days of each other, and I found them in a low, cool barn, I think it was the little tackroom from the old place). Some visits are from people or parts of me that I just thought were dead, like the time I caught my first ex-husband making out with this lady I worked with. I could not look at her for two years. And there were many dreams of petting my first ex-husband's head, rubbing his ears, kissing his eyebrows. Some mornings, I'd awake and still smell his hair on my pillow.
This is a good dream. This is a good ride, and I am looking for my first horse, Little Devil. How funny that I'd thought he was dead. I am so glad he isn't. I am so looking forward to another ride. Maybe this afternoon, if I can catch him. And Jerry rides up. On Spec. So I must be on Chelsea. Jerry looks good. Jerry looks like Jerry, or John Wayne, depends on how you look at him. He's smiling. He asks, "Have you had your coffee, yet? I'll get you some. I'll leave it in the laundry room."
And I think, wait a second, hold on a minute, Diamond T has never had a laundry room....
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