Couch

     Within the walls of my relative's house, an unsettling presence lurks. A creature, elusive and mysterious, scurries through the hidden recesses of the couch's cushions. Its rustling echoes like a secret whispered in the dark corners of the night. But this is not the first encounter with the uncanny that this dwelling has seen.

     Earlier, I had the fortune or misfortune, depending on one's perspective, to stumble upon a diminutive raccoon—a tiny creature no larger than a mouse. Captivated by its unique essence, I carefully ensnared it, confining it within the confines of a glass tube, an odd trophy of my curiosity.

     Yet, as if summoned by the strange magnetism that pulses through this family abode, another member of our kin emerges, clutching the newly apprehended couch-dweller in their grasp. Is it a squirrel or a ferret? The answer eludes us, its true nature veiled by the whims of the fates.

     Amidst this peculiar spectacle, I find myself drawn to the presence of my grandmother—a figure who seems to exist in a world uniquely her own. A cigarette dangles precariously between her fingers as she shuffles through a deck of playing cards, her weathered hands etched with a lifetime of stories. The air hangs heavy with the scent of tobacco, mingling with the electricity of the unknown.

     My gaze drifts downwards, capturing the image of the tiny trash panda, sprawled on its back, limbs splayed in every conceivable direction. Its vulnerability tugs at my heart, urging me to seek solace in the embrace of nature's embrace. And so, with a decision forged in the crucible of empathy, I resolve to transport the diminutive creature outside, allowing it to bask in the revitalizing touch of fresh air.

     Together, we step into the world beyond the confines of four walls, the creature nestled safely in my hands. The atmosphere crackles with anticipation, as if the very universe holds its breath, awaiting the unfolding of this peculiar tale. And as we venture forth, I can't help but ponder the profound connection that binds us all—the living, the curious, and the enigmatic—in this ever-unfolding tapestry we call life.

I wake up.

The Price is Right

Dream 6-13-13

My father is a contestant on The Price is Right. My mother and I are sitting behind the cameras watching. They keep calling my dad "the Vietnam vet." This seems strange to me. He didn't fight in Vietnam. My mom takes her camera out and snaps a picture. I grab her by the shoulder and pull her back. She screams. I tell her that she can't disturb the production. Bob Barker walks toward her and takes her camera away. My dad wins the show.

In 1993, My dad is playing his guitar on the couch. His shirt is off, and he's wearing a baseball cap. The kids are running throughout the house, playing.

Years later, my brother and I feel the need to play The Price is Right. We travel to California. My dad comes with us. We make it to the show. We ask for an information card but all the name cards are filled. We find one that is empty. I fill it out. I sit down and wait for my name to be called. Dream ends.

I wake up.