After my mother went away to run a donut shop in another city two hours away, I began to frequently dream of being trapped in a house as it fell from the sky, its windows buckling and its foundations flying as we hurtled toward earth.
The dream stayed with me for a long time, from childhood into adulthood, as I moved from city to city, country to country, lover to lover, and husband to husband, leaving behind friends and family and homes and belongings, feeling their ephemerality as vividly as I felt the velocity of a house falling from the sky. I’d want to make home, but I also felt that it was impossible: this, too, will pass.
I recalled that dream-house, listening to my nephews and nieces play during Christmas. How protected they were from such dreams, such realities, so far, in their cosy homes. Home was the certain shelter for their dreams.
So I’ll indulge in a re-imagining of the dream: I grow wings and fly from the house, saving myself.