River of Dreams - by Leyla Eraslan

When I was little, I wore out a cassette with my favorite song, about a man who goes searching for something, something undefined, on the banks a River. Then I got older, and it wasn’t my favorite song anymore.

--

We had a laugh at the moment on the TV show when they said how no one’s dreams are as interesting to other people as they are to ourselves. My laughter was as sincere as it was self-conscious. I knew you and I were both thinking of the many mornings when I burst into consciousness like dashing across an unseen boundary between worlds, hurrying towards my words. I’d hold a feeling in my chest like I had snatched something from that closely guarded subconscious realm and if I didn’t move fast enough, the stolen something clutched in my hands would be taken back.

I’ve got something. I’ve got something to share with you. I’ve got something secret and sacred to share with you. I open my hands:

“Oh my God, I just dreamed that we were looking at this house that we were gonna move into and there just kept being more and more rooms and rooms that would appear. And then, in one of the rooms, there was this feral-like child and we were supposed to ignore the feral child so I couldn't ask the person showing us the house who looked kinda like your mom but also kinda like my third grade teacher, like, Hey, if we take this house, are we also supposed to take this like sad skinny dirty wolf child too? ‘Cause I don’t know if I’m down for that. You know. In the dream. But also, like, in real life."

When I share my dreams with you, you stare at me. You say something to the effect of “Yeah, that’s weird.” And that’s the end of that. Fair enough, I suppose.

But I think sometimes I want you to walk down to the River with me, and look for what I’m looking for. In the song I heard when I was a kid, a man goes down to the River at night to look for something, something he’d never lose.

What do these empty hands mean?

Did I lose something?

Then, you usually get out of bed. And I start my day and for the rest of it, I don’t even think of the River.

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an old refrain - by jori marie rillera

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I Knew, Somehow - by Alissa Rae Funderburk