The Mother of All Dreams
Dreams are shifty, shimmering beings. Absent when I sleep. Stalking me when my eyes are open. My imagination is my waking dream, a piece of me that can infiltrate a conversation and bring it to a halt, can capture my attention and fragment it, can sew unrelated things together, make them one.
It’s trite to say I have a dream.
Lots of mothers dream about their children before they meet them. Mothers throughout time snagged the lives of their offspring in the stardust of a comet. Knew who the butterballs of flesh and smiles would grow to become. Mapped the pattern of their lives in the chambers of their hearts. Blessed the ambitions and visions of their children when none of it turned out the way they dreamed.
Most of my close friends are mothers. I watch them juggle everything with half a hand, and I admire them more than I ever tell them. So much, in fact, that I promised myself I would send each of them a card this year for Mother’s Day.
Life had other dreams for me. I failed.
To the ladies in my life who are mothers: Happy Mother’s Day. You have listened with patience to my recounting of my singular dream more than was ever your calling. Even as it has grown and mutated, as people have laughed behind their hands at my zeal, you haven’t once discouraged me. In fact, several of you stepped up to read me the riot act when I wanted to quit.
Thank you for never giving up on me, for making time in your insane schedules for a lost soul like me. I couldn’t dream some of the friends I have for fear they are too good to be true, that I would wake up alone. Here’s to you, my Mother friends, as your families fete you today.