I found my neighbor's dog in my living room. I didn't really know how this tiny, white Chihuahua managed to end up in my place. He was cold and scared. I didn't have a blanket to keep him warm, so I went to the kitchen and got a pot. I filled it with water. Then, to warm up the water, I put the pot on one of the stove's burners. I turned it on. I gently submerged the dog in the liquid. I heard Greg, my neighbor, calling for his dog. I ran out of the house to tell him the Chihuahua was safe with me. We went to the kitchen to get the dog, but to my dismay, the water was boiling, with doggie inside. I removed the the burning hot and wet dog and held it in my arms, feeling guilty and stupid, I screamed.
My husband and I went to the local train station to purchase roundtrip tickets for our summer vacation. The name of the destination doesn't really matter. We had chosen that place for its gigantic watermelons and honeydew melons that grow in the summer. As we waited in the long line, we talked about children. We talked about children because we watched a little, annoying brat cry in the station. When we see annoying children like this little Mussolini, we fill our heads and hearts with a strange mixture of arrogance and gratitude and give thanks to the Buddha for choosing not to have children (we don't know who else to thank). Unfortunately, my husband decided to share some secret information with me. He chose the long line to make this confession:
He has seven children: six children living in Mexico and one child in California.
I reacted strangely to shocking news. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I numbed myself.
I didn't really care about his children in Mexico. I was curious to know about his child in California. When?! How?!
It turns out my husband had an affair when he came to this country in 2006 with a girl named Susie. They had a son.
In a matter of seconds my husband became a strange man. The man I married one February morning, the man who makes me an omelette with broccoli and corn every morning, the man who loves to place his hand in my sweatshirt's pouch was gone. Así nomas. Se fue.
Filled with numbness I stood in line imagining the watermelons bursting, exposing their sweet, red flesh to the hot and dry summer.
The written content above is a recording of my dreams from Thursday and Friday night. It has been a long time since I had "vivid" dreams. I won't analyze these dreams. I’ll just expose them to the air like Tibetan prayer flags. I do admit I woke up feeling mad at my husband. I even woke him up to ask him about Susie.
There is no Susie.
I used to have a recurring dream with Glenn Gould. In my dreams his fingers played an ocean instead of a piano. His fingers produced violent ripples and splashes of water, thus, releasing beautiful music. Glenn Gould has been away from dreams for quite some time. If you see him in your dreams tell him I want him back.