The dark and dirty circle swirled and deepened like a clay pot on its wheel, fingers raising the edges and deepening the hole--but it is a recurring nightmare and the hole was a pit I fell into. "Mommy!" I called, and Dad came running to me half dressed, I suspect to get me before I wet the bed and all the bedding would need to be changed.
At 62, I still have this dream occasionally though it doesn't panic me anymore. I know about Alice and wonderland, Orpheus and Erudice, Jules Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth, and every science fiction/fantasy writer and would-be Lord of the Rings the English-speaking world has to offer. And I think about the 7-year old I was discovering imagination and storytelling and faith in ceiling tiles a leg-length away from the top bunk. This was my private space unless I fell asleep and the nightmare came.
Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast