I remember recurring childhood dream about a box
of 128 Crayola crayons (including the coveted gold and silver). The dream had many variations but always
ended the same way: with my treasured box of
crayons carefully tucked under my pillow for safe keeping.
Each morning as I woke from that dream I looked under my pillow. Though I knew the crayons wouldn't be there, I still hoped the crayons transcended from a dream to reality. It never happened, of course. That didn't stop me from enjoying my time in that dream.
Each morning as I woke from that dream I looked under my pillow. Though I knew the crayons wouldn't be there, I still hoped the crayons transcended from a dream to reality. It never happened, of course. That didn't stop me from enjoying my time in that dream.
Many mornings as I watch Sam wipe the sleep from his eyes I wonder if he dreams as I did. Does he dream of playing basketball and sinking the perfect shot or dream of fabulous colors? Does he think dreams are real? Does he dream at all?
“Sam,” I ask, “how did you sleep?” With his peculiar voice inflections he responds, “I slept OK.” Whether he slept one hour or eight, the answer is always the same. “I slept OK.” Attempting to prolong the conversation I ask, “Did you dream?” “Yes,” he always answers. “What did you dream about?” I probe. Again the answer is always the same: “Bed.” I interject the word “…and...” and he responds, “...and sleep.” "You dreamed about bed and sleep?" I ask incredulously. "Yes," he answers.
“Sam,” I ask, “how did you sleep?” With his peculiar voice inflections he responds, “I slept OK.” Whether he slept one hour or eight, the answer is always the same. “I slept OK.” Attempting to prolong the conversation I ask, “Did you dream?” “Yes,” he always answers. “What did you dream about?” I probe. Again the answer is always the same: “Bed.” I interject the word “…and...” and he responds, “...and sleep.” "You dreamed about bed and sleep?" I ask incredulously. "Yes," he answers.
“OK Sam, let’s talk about dreams.” He knows the drill now and provides me a rote reply, “Yes.
Dream. Sleep. Bed.” “Do you know where dreams come from?” I ask. He scripts, “From your Sam’s brain.” “Yes. It is your imagination while you sleep. Do
you know about imagination?” I ask. “Elmo’s imagination,” he says referencing an Elmo
song about imagination as he turns to something else. How much is he understanding? I am seldom sure.
My dream about the
box of Crayola crayons has long been gone. I have a newer dream in its
place, though. I dream of conversing with Sam with relative ease. It is a dream I have with frequency. I dream Sam is able to tell me all the things he currently can't.
It is a happy dream.
Each time I wake from this dream I repeat the emotional equivalent
of looking under my pillow for my crayons: that brief moment of hope my dream is real.
It is not, of course. But I will dream of it again another day, and another day and
still another day after that. Who knows, maybe, just maybe, one
morning the dream will continue into my waking hours and and I will unlock the mysteries of my beautiful boy.
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