Bacon and Hippopotamus (Three Segments) | The Dreamweaver

I was driving with my two youngest daughters through the streets of Valencia. As we approached my old neighborhood, I turned the corner too wide and ended up flush against the buildings on the wrong side of the street. A car had to swerve to avoid hitting me.

The street turned out to be where I used to live, so I turned left. It had become very narrow, with houses and shops lining both sides. As I drove up the street, I tried to remember our apartment number. I drove past it, put the car in reverse, and backed up—number 28, Calle de Rafael Cisternas. We stopped, got out, and walked to the front of the building. I pointed out the first-floor window to my daughters. "That's where I used to sleep with Virginia," I said, gesturing to what had been our bedroom. I showed them the other windows where their older brother and sister had their rooms, with the tiny balcony outside.

Suddenly, Aaron and Elizabeth appeared in the window on that little balcony—five years old again, wearing familiar summer garb. I spoke to them. Their younger sisters looked up in amazement, listening to those sweet children's voices. I said to my son, "Your hair is so long and beautiful." I asked him what he likes to eat, and he quickly responded, "Bacon and hippopotamus!"

We all laughed. "You can't eat hippopotamus!" I said, then mentioned his beautiful long hair again and asked if I could reach up and touch it. As I reached up, he moved his head toward my hand and fell off the balcony—into my arms. All at once he transformed into Daniel, my first Tibetan terrier. I held him in my arms as tears began streaming down my face. "I've missed you so much," I kept saying. "I've missed you so much."

I woke with tears streaming, still saying it over and over: "I've missed you so much." ----------

Earlier in the dream, I was at home on Washtenaw, awakened in the middle of the night by someone walking through the house. I got up and peeked into the bedroom next to mine—in reality the pantry—where I think one of my children was sleeping. I walked through the house to my mother's room. "Someone's walking through the house," I said.

"It's your father," she replied. "He wakes up in the middle of the night and does things. He's in the living room now."

I walked into the living room to see what he was doing. He stood by the window, removing electronics from a box—cables and things. I was so happy to see him looking young and healthy, despite his Parkinson's disease. I asked what he was doing.

"I purchased this internet television setup," he said, setting a small portable television—a 1980s model—on the table, then placing an open laptop beside it. "I can watch TV on the computer, but this television is too small. I'll have to get a new one. I already ordered one."

My mother came into the living room. "What's all the hullabaloo?" she asked.

My father grabbed her in his embrace and gave her a very loving, warm kiss. Watching them, I felt warmth inside, happy to witness that beautiful expression of their love. ----------

Earlier still, I had been trying to get home from downtown Chicago, walking on the west side of Lake Shore Drive. I knew I needed to cross the street to reach the bus stop, but soon realized I'd walked too far north and encountered rocky hills. I knew I was in the wrong place but decided to climb some of the rocks anyway—I had my Birkenstocks on. Then I decided to go back the way I came and find an overpass to cross Lake Shore Drive to catch my bus home.

Then I woke up.