The mind plays tricks. Post traumatic flashbacks can fade a smile on the forgiven and send them back in the bunker long since abandoned. The forgiven, those extreme cases that cause doubt in just about everybody else, are like wounded soldiers who’ve returned to their homes, only to find another kind of war. The real wolves have been killed or scared into backing off, but the humans dressed as wolves are making a Spring celebration of “how great we art”. Mutilating the tools that were designed to recuse, breaking off prongs they deem confusing and useless, and turning them into something that looks right, but sends people running to the woods where the trap is set.
The mind plays tricks. Aftermath dreams that “all is grace”, and your human inflicted punishment is over, acknowledge enough reality to make you wonder if it’s a promise. In the light of day, you realize it’s just as possible to be another form of torture.
I dreamt the father no longer had to scratch days, then weeks, then months, then years on the waiting room wall. I dreamt the mother was no longer aging in a barrel like bitter wine, but had turned into the fermented sweetness that summer days ache for. I dreamt the child was holding on to her own piece of truth, a cocooned bond, and not lost to him…
I dreamt the father got to see his daughter.
I always dream in color bathed in a vibrant white light. I always find out I’m dreaming before I’m finished.
The sun shone through her hair and her cheeks were round with a youth she passed a few years ago. When I saw how young she was, I knew it was a dream. And I hoped that youth would still let him form in her wings, making them fuller and rounder. I backed away from him so that he could have this moment all to himself. The moment where the first question was about to be answered.
I watched his face to see how this was going to affect him. He always hopes. I don’t know how he stays so soft when he’s been hit so hard. In my dream, he’s up for spiritual parole and his committee is filled with people who gain from his loss. Why would they ever set him free? They’d have to admit so much wrong. It’s this that makes me doubt miracles.
I searched the mother’s eyes for any sign of mercy. In my dreams, I can see it.
For a moment I got to be somewhere else. I got to see the world my hope has created and I got to see the father find out the answer, at least in my dream, …she remembers him.
His daughter remembers him.
Some things I write about can only be understood if you’ve read the book.