The Pebble

My house is in the south by a river, far from the DMZ. At night, the river reflects the moon and the walls seem bathed in water. When my grandson wakes me, which is most nights, he is like a mirage.

“Grampa,” he says, “I had a bad dream. I dreamed I turned into a rock and fell into the river and drowned.”

“I dreamed I was a pebble in your pocket. I dreamed you dropped me but you didn’t see.”

I roll to the wall and squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe if I move further south the dreams will stop. Read the rest of this entry »