The Dream

In short: my grandmother had a creepy dream that could have foretold one of her friends’ death. This is a fictionalized account of a real event. Note the word fiction. Enjoy.

Think back to the days when grown people were little kids and lies were undisputedly true. Would you ever imagine how it’s all come to pass? Little kids grow into grown people and truths turn into lies. That’s a mystery to me. So is the story that lies ahead.

Youth is associated with stories and a story I shall tell. As kids, we were told fantastic stories about the Selfish Giant and a little boy, Ali Baba and the thousand thieves, in between others. These stories pushed boundaries and holes in reality. This is not an oddity- it is expected for fantastical stories to do this. This story is not to establish a truth but to question it. It is all grown up. Yet it does not fit in this category either. Adults are supposed to know everything, right?

Fact is, they don’t. Never will. Everything is a mystery if looked differently. And that fascinates me and encourages me to find the truth, wherever there really is one. In this case, there is no truth, just truths.

These are the cold hard facts: my grandmother had a creepy dream that could have foretold one of her friends’ death. Now, do I believe in foretelling? Not really. That’s up to you to decide, the reader.

I am a secondary source. I would not have been there, unless I could read minds or walk in others’ dreams. Am I a good source, then? Maybe. Like Martin Luther King Jr., my grandmother had a dream, literally in this case. She was standing a top a cliff. The weather was stormy. The ocean waves roared beneath. A voice called her name.

She instantly recognized the voice of her best friend, María. María pointed at the disgruntled sky and then at the blackness that was the ocean waves, sticking up like pin needles.

They jumped, she awoke.

It was just a dream. That’s what she thought. That’s what everyone she told said. It was just a dream.

It wasn’t.

After a year she dreamt it again. And again. The dream recurred, night after night after night. The sky, the water, her friend, and the jump. Over and over as in a time loop.

Coffee and sleep deprivation came as expected. And like bad guests, they would not leave. Her husband Pedro implored that she see the doctor. Shaking like a brittle leaf, she did.  There was nothing wrong. Not that I can see, the doctor said. You should see a therapist. And so she went to the therapist. And the therapist just could not see what was wrong either.

Then finally one night there was no dream. No sky, no water, no friend, no jump. Instead of cool relief, she felt red-hot suspicion boiling, quite rightly.

She stood on the treacherous cliff, again. She watched the thunderous sky, the menacing waves. María called her name, Ana.

She beckoned. Away from the cliff.

Confusion swept over her. Would they run, then jump? She walked over, yet the silence stretched like a yawning cat and the jump still did not come.

Suddenly, María spoke. This is the last time we do this, Ana.

They jumped. She awoke.

The dream never came back. And she waited. And waited. And wait she did! At long last curiosity took the place of patience as she called up her best friend, María. The phone remained silent, so she called another friend. She made inquiries. Her mind did summersaults and a gasp escaped her lips. Sorrow and morbid curiosity took over.

María had died three days ago. Her last dream had been four days ago.

Think about this. Are dreams prophetic? Who knows. Questions will only keep coming. A few answers too. Then more questions. Such is the cycle of the search for the truth. There is no shiny beacon and a green light at the end of the dock.

Don’t look at me, I’m only the author. I only know this story.

The rest is up to you.