Dreaming Backwards

In more than one dream this week I have seen E. as a baby; a cross between and infant and a toddler; all smiles and hugs, happiest in my arms.

It is probably no coincidence that my mind is traveling backwards in time, the older and closer he gets to leaving home. In a perverse twist, part of me enjoyed nursing him last week, although my heart broke to see him in such swollen, searing pain. His need was naked and raw. He was grateful to have me swoop in every few hours with pudding or ice packs or water, like a hungry baby bird, desperate for its mama to deposit a bug into its wide-open mouth. But as he heals, his softness, like the puffiness of his cheeks, recedes.

Saturday night, in a moment of sleeplessness, I strolled around the house and happened upon him as he came in a little too late from seeing friends. We exchanged a few words and he began to open his arms for a hug. Then he thought better of it.

This is what my dreams are for.