(Sometimes, the best way to approach dream interpretation is to retell the dream from a different character’s perspective. What follows is just that. The ‘she’ referred to is the ego self. To gain further insight, I also wrote a poem, simply titled “Glue”.)
How can I justify this current state of malaise, given the opulence that defines my life? Each waking moment is filled with the busyness of minding the children, pursuing a suitable career, and tidying this enormous house in anticipation of more guests – all of it a testament to my capability and worthiness, surely.
Perfection is not too high a standard, I tell myself; I want to be that perfect mom – the PTA mom that everyone admires and strives to be. Today, for instance, I am hosting a party for my friend’s mother, themed: This is your life. I’ve invited people from her past, and I’m hoping to inspire change. Heaven knows, she needs it, has basically dropped out of existence since becoming ill, and we want her back. Well, at least, I know her daughter does, and that’s cause enough for me to help out.
I’ve chosen a bright red sweater with splashes of neon colour – an old favourite of the guest of honour – a blast from her past. She wore it at a time when her kids were young and aspired to many of the same things as me. She wore her hair short, then, sleek, with big-hooped earrings to accent her small round head. Bright colours, she’d read were best for her skin tones – this was the era of True Colours. I can tell, when I open the door to receive her, that she recognizes the attire – she is momentarily taken aback and then composes herself, her smile wry, reminiscent.
She takes in every inch of the house, of our existence, sympathizes with the amount of work it takes to keep it all going, does not question the absence of my husband – hers was always absent too. It’s what men in our lives do. Stay away and provide. We fill in the rest. Carte blanche, I like to think of it; I prefer it this wa
Mr. Slaughter arrives, and she is initially delighted, except the once large, broad-shouldered man, who rescued her from her teenage angst, is now hunched, wasted away with grief – his wife left him and he cannot bear the solitude. “Down and out”, I mutter under my breath. She is stunned into silence. He meant so much to her, I can see, she is wondering how this can be. The man who set a path for her, now destroyed. Life happens, I think.
Another friend arrives, pulls up in a gold toned convertible, her massive blonde hair piled atop her head like something out of a fifties Doris Day movie. She hasn’t aged a day, by the looks of her, and boy, does she flaunt it. This elicits a smile from V.J., who always knew her friend was different, admired her moxy, her willingness to walk her own path. Even though they are years apart, she admires the younger woman’s unwillingness to conform, wishes she had a bit of it herself. “You know what you need?” the blonde bombshell tells her. “You need glue.”
I’d told her that myself – was glad someone echoed my sentiment. “Glue” I echoed. “To hold yourself together.”
She looks dubious, but says she’ll run by her doctor. There is hope for her yet.
Writer, avid reader, former educator, and proud grandmother, currently experiencing life through the lens of ME/CFS. Words are, and always have been, a lifeline. Some of the best adventures, I'm discovering, take place in the imagination.