I have a dream. Not the Martin Luther King, Jr. kind of dream — although I do dream of a time when all people are judged by the contents of their hearts rather than the colors of their skins — but a dream nonetheless.
In my dream I’m sitting in the shade on a stone patio behind a small off-grid house —perhaps a yurt or geodesic dome. Cool morning breezes fluff my hennaed hair. To the east — the Florida Mountains. Roan, paws and belly damp from a dip in the horse trough, saunters over, eases down.
A man — in my dream he’s a cowboy — comes out of the house carrying two cups of coffee — one tablespoon of flavored cream plus a sprinkle of cinnamon stirred in. Just the way we like it. We sip in silence as the sun pastel-paints the Sleeping Dragon. Another day in paradise. The man and I smile. Two needles in a haystack we.
Horses greet the day, neighs carried on the wind. The man has fed and watered them or maybe I have. We’re both early risers. Our favorite time of day. A new beginning every dawn.
Two coffees later, I retreat from the sun to the coolness within to eat breakfast or perhaps I’m fasting until lunch this day. Then off to my office space to work. Perhaps writing or drawing or answering emails or ordering hay.
Or, maybe this day an impromptu road trip in Pegasus to the man’s friends’ winery in northern New Mexico. The old war horse wants to run. He hates it when I call him “old.”
But who will feed the horses? A neighbor boy who looks up to the man like the father he never had.
Or maybe no road trip this day. Maybe the man will jump on his UTV and ride the property, his dog riding shotgun. Or maybe we’ll ride the property together — his and her horses, his and her dogs — a much-needed break from the computer screen.
Maybe we’ll plan the book tour. He’ll drive Pegasus or…but I don’t want him to be an accessory to my life. And vice versa.
So Roan, Pegasus, and I will hit the road, missing the man every second of every day until we’re all back together again.
Time passes. Dogs and horses long gone. The man and I slow down. No more road trips. Nothing else to see and why leave paradise? Why leave home?
The man dies on a Tuesday. I hold his hand, look into his eyes as he takes his last breath, and say, “Over and out.” I die on a Wednesday.
Our spirits shoot into the Great Void.
“Welcome home!,” They call out to us. “Job well done! Come join the party!” And into the Void we go.
But the man in question (“Too”), the man who helped inspire my dream has gone. Following his own dream. Perhaps to return, most likely to not.
And still I dream.