Safe
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Last night I dreampt that there had been an assasination.
People huddled in groups in large foyers, people walking about sombre and whispering. No one would tell me what was going on. No one would even look at me without a sneer. Somehow, somehow I did not deserve to know.
I began walking. I walked long barren streets with dustbowl deserts on either side. I passed fruit stands with shrivelled up people attending. I passed women sitting in lawn chairs with small children. They all looked at me despicably.
It felt dangerous here, as if someone would jump out any minute to slit my throat.
I walked all the way to Mexico, then I began to walk back; passing the same dangerous people, the same dangerous cane fields that felt lurking and ill.
Finally I arrived back to a place I could recognise, and there was a band playing in a grassy place near the side of a city street. Groups of people sat about on blankets in the grass, listening. Groups of people that had once been friends but who now glanced past me as if I didn't exist, or looked at me with contempt.
In my dream, the man singing and playing guitar, was my father. He didn't look like my actual father, though.
I lay in the grass just below a bit of rising ground, so that he could not see me. I waited, and watched him play. After a few minutes he noticed me there, and opened his arms wide. I ran towards him, and there I was, being embraced. I knew I had been missed, I knew I had been worried over, I knew I was welcomed.
It was the most warmly comforting feeling in the world. I have never felt that safe when awake, or if I have, it's a memory I've long since forgotten.
There were little scenes after, including one of me in a circle of people who were somehow shielding me; and my dream father's voice saying, "And you were always there, always there."