Every Friday we unite for five minutes. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on dream.
Your dad dreamt of you, before he even met you.
He always knew you would be here.
He always knew he would be holding you, playing with you, throwing a ball around.
He always knew he would teach you how to ride your bike, or how to swim, how to do your homework.
You were always the kids of his dreams.
If pressed, I bet he would say this is how you always pictured looking,
his big blue eyes, silly smiles, curls flapping everywhere.
He dreamt of your little hand, place in his, while crossing the street.
He dreamt of your firsts, your milestones, your future.
He already knows the person you will become, he has always seen your potential, even before you were born.
I had other dreams, and they were lonely.
There was nothing filling me full in my dreams.
Nothing making my heart shatter a million different ways, and being put back together by the little of it all.
In my dreams, I didn't relive a childhood.
I didn't embrace family.
And then, he made me sleep so soundly, that my dreams changed.
I could start to picture you too.
I could see you, really see you.
I dreamt of holding you, comforting you,
I dreamt of motherhood, and I was falling in love with you, even before I met you.
And now, when you talk to me from your dreams,
I know that all of our dreams have come true.