I dreamt all night of pancakes. In my dreams, my Dad rose from the dead to build his daughter endless golden towers. All night long he made pancakes, I ate them, and Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth wore tiny “black lives matter!” t-shirts.
He died 30 years ago, so I’m not sure why he dropped by after all this time to make me fat and sick with grief. I’m sure he meant well, but he stirred the batter of my discontent, flipped my mood, and stacked the day against me. Maybe he haunts me because it’s October, or maybe he knows I’m done with greek yogurt.
Either way, I shuffled out of bed this morning into an empty kitchen. I made myself coffee with tears on my face. I sat at a counter still sticky with I-had-a-dream, still wet with mourning breath.
After all these years, and all this time, some things never change; like being hungry for a dream to come true.
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