A racist dream of the prophet kind.

When I was small, and you were small, I dreamt one night that we lived back in ‘olden times.’ To me, this meant general stores with big butter cloths and floors made of dust; corn and wood walls. In this olden time, the slaves were uprising, I somehow understood this, and all of us (me, mom, dad, dan, pete) were escaping on our family ‘wagon’ as it were. The slaves were following fast and suit, chasing us with knives, and assorted kitchen things. They emerged from the dust like wolves and their angry eyes shining like moons in their skulls and I was crying because their anger was hot and silent and these were olden times, and my olden dress was strange and I cried because we had dropped you.

We had dropped you, or you had fallen, or you were too small, but whatever it was, you were running behind our wagon, trying to catch up. We all reached out our hands for you, but you were the smallest (remember that time you were not large?) and you could not and we could not reach.  They were coming up fast behind you, reaching for you, stealing you, getting you, trying to. That’s where the dream ends, on your fat hands reaching through the dust.

This is only the eight millionth time I have thought about that dream, and now that you are big and now that you sign your name on thing and make Large Choices, now that you are going Over There (this just in, were you going to tell me?), should I now say, Guess what? I am a prophet. In my dreams, you die. Something is going to happen to you. Don’t go. You don’t know me, I don’t know you, but if you stayed, we could start to.  Would you listen?