I cannot adult today. I can not do it.
I woke up from a dream that was mostly good and sweet about a huge celebration in Roseland at the old elementary school I attended which is now a little museum.
The building where I learned to read and to sweep, two of the most valuable learnings of my life.
This dream celebration had food and drinks and antiques for sale. There was to be an exploration of the river by moonlight.
Children were playing in the branches of a different tree and I laid on my back and took a picture of their dangling legs and the leaves and the sky from below them. They were so happy in that tree.
I told people about Aunt Flonnie, who had been our bus driver and our cafeteria cook. I remembered working in that kitchen, sweeping out that bus. I remembered Aunt Flonnie's generous bosom, her generous soul, her black Cherokee hair, her strong, strong arms.
All of this has left me dream-drained and exhausted as if my memories had been pulled from me with delicate force and now I am as woozy as I would be after a surgery.
I am going to stay here, in Lloyd, in my own house and yard and porch with my cats and my chickens and listen to the chanting of the crickets as the heat builds and hang out my clothes and simply let myself drift back in time and at the same time, be here now, and I don't know whether to laugh or to cry but as Joni Mitchell said, sometime's it's the same thing.