Back on the Horse (Incorporating Someone Else's Dream)

“Incorporating a dream”/Getting Back on the Horse

The night after I almost drowned, I dreamed of drowning. It took much longer than I remembered and the river currents that had, during the day, been merciless, at night were gentle and comforting, coaxing me under. During the day, a small girl had panicked in the water and wrapped herself around me, inadvertently pinning my arms. When I struggled to free myself, she clung more tightly, and screamed. Down we went.

At night, the child was still there, her arms still wrapped tight, but she was quiet enough that I could hear the rush of the river filling my ears and the aborted shout in my own throat as water filled my mouth. Separated from air and sun, the current carried us down. Our upper bodies melded but our four lower limbs floated free behind us, as if dancing.

There was music. Not a typical funeral dirge, or even Brahms, but something that sounded like the melody of a popular television theme song. Something that stirred up sentiment not because it was good but because it was so reassuringly familiar.

When I woke the next morning it was as sunny as every day in August and we returned to the river. The day before, my mother had heard the girl’s scream and dove in after us, catching us on the river bottom and carrying us to shore on her back like a large turtle. Today, she said, it was time to “get back on the horse.” I splashed and played with the little girl for long enough that my mother was reassured. Then we got out and had lunch.

That night I dreamed again of drowning. The theme music was louder and began even before we’d gotten in the water. The current pulled us under. This night it was insistent, heavy-handed, pushing us down and then staying there on top of us, heavy. The little girl was blonder than before. She seemed to be wearing a light pink blush and a little lipstick, but perhaps it was just the light.

In the morning, we put on our bathing suits and sun screen while my mother packed lunch. At the river, we swam and played. At lunch, the young girl and I quarreled over the sandwiches. One had gotten soggy and neither of us wanted that one.

That night, I dreamed the forest was burning. I was on a log ride, sitting alone in the hallowed wood as it made it’s way up to the top of the chute. I could see the blue pines and madrones, their tips red with fire. Then, the log tipped forward, the chlorinated water spashing up onto the boat, and I raised both arms as I began my descent.