I awoke
from a dream. In the dream, a raven was sitting on the window sill, his velvety
beak in profile. When I awoke, a crow was sitting on the window sill, his
velvety beak in profile. I carried this image around with me for the rest of
the day, wondering what it meant that I had dreamed of my life before it
happened. That day there was a cold rain falling from a slate grey sky. A woman
at the bus stop tossed the rain from her umbrella, it made small arcs that reminded
me of a small wooden helicopter that I’d had as a child. We waited for the bus
for ten minutes or so, this woman and I, who kept looking at her watch, at her
phone, peering down the street as if the bus would arrive faster if only she
gazed enough. And, finally, after the long day of thinking about the crow and
the raven and the space on my window sill, I was finally able to shake the
dream. She got on the bus quickly, without looking up, running a card across
the scanner while I tossed change into the slot like a foreigner though I’ve
lived here my whole life. I walked to the back of the bus and sat next to a man
in his fifties, who was staring blankly ahead as though the world held no
secrets, no magic. As I sat, our arms brushed, and I felt the warmth of his arm
against mine as though it were tender. I knew then what sort of dream I wanted
to have that night. I wanted to dream of this moment on the bus, of the woman
waiting at the bus stop, and the man sitting in his seat, staring blankly out
into the void. I closed my eyes and tried to dream the scene into existence as
I had with the raven and the crow. I only wanted to change a single thing about
that moment, those people, like the raven for the crow. I wanted the woman
waiting at the bus stop to smile and say hello, and I wanted the man on the
bus, his face weathered with age, to lift his eyes and smile. The rhythm of the
bus reminded me of the sea, and I felt myself being carried down into the
depths of dreams where I could still change the world.
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