I think I dreamed a memory last night–it was the strangest thing. If that’s even possible. But it was very clear and detailed. I think I was 6 or 7 in the dream, and I woke up in the middle of the night and went into the kitchen. My dad was sitting there in a chair, with my mom’s desk light on, holding my brother’s bb gun.
“What do you need?” he asked me.
I needed lots of things, but all I wanted was a drink of water. “I’m thirsty,” I said.
“Get your drink,” he said. “But be quiet.”
“Why do you have Timmy’s gun?” I asked him.
“Mice,” he said. “They’ve been leaving shit pellets under the sink. And on the floor over there by the phone.”
“Don’t we have mousetraps?” I asked.
“Well, son, we do. But I can’t shoot them in the cupboard.”
“Oh, OK.” I said. I got a small glass of orange juice and drank it standing by the sink.
“You’re really going to shoot them?” I asked.
“I hope so,” he growled.
“Ok, then.” I said. “I’m going back to bed.”
I wonder if he got them? Can’t remember that part. I know my dad hated mice, though.
A Work in Progress 