I never had those reoccurring dreams you read about or see on TV.
But lately I’ve been having dreams that are eerily similar, leaving me with a sweet/sad feeling that lasts half the day. Sometimes I wake half out of breath, as if it’s just happened.
Let me tell you about one. It seems real, except there’s a longing that permeates the air like the ripples in old glass:
I’m first aware of sound, then sensation. The breeze is whipping by my ears, whizzzzzzzz. I hear the rapid clop clop of hooves on the earth, singing cicadas. My muscles pleasantly tense, my heart thumping loudly in my chest, my gloved hands grasping a clump of grizzled mane, legs clamped around a galloping Millie.
In front of us, Zeus and Karen. She looks back and gives me a wicked grin. I think, “I would never turn around in the saddle at a gallop!” Not a lot of experience at the flat out thing–I do as I’ve been taught, and it gives a rush like no other.
For a moment, just long enough for me to revel in the freedom, the power and the speed, we gallop on. Then, Millie being eighteen years old and a Percheron to boot, slows unbidden to a trot. Karen and Zeus have disappeared around a hill. It’s over.
No mane in my fingers, no wind in my face. Those cicadas weren’t really cicadas. They were the sound and shimmering ice of a winter’s morning, that moment just before waking, when you are unable name the things your heart aches for.