Dream dream dream, dreeeeam

I have some recurring dreams. By some I mean hundreds of dreams of being at my father’s house. The last one felt so real it hurt. I was a young boy and that’s what hurt. It hurt because I’m a middle age man and the details in my dream were vivid.

Childhood is more than a game with good friends and caring adults. For the reader who’s grown into their adulthood looking back at their childhood might bring a smile or a tear or a frown to their face. Honestly, the emotion brought back from delving into a childhood memory can be very specific. One memory might be all happy. And brings a smile to their lips when thought about. Honestly, while it is said time goes by in a blink, like childhood is there one moment and gone the next.

What makes a child an adult? The question seems odd. It takes time to grow. The words “grow up” comes to my mind. I don’t remember being told to grow up. I’m an adult. It took 47 years of growing to get here.

Childhood is one stage of life. Before childhood is infancy. I believe, I could be wrong and I believe after the infancy stage of life is the toddler stage of life. The word toddler brings to my mind a very young child learning to walk and run. Possibly taking his or her first steps. The words toddling along comes to my mind of a very young child going at their own pace learning to walk.

In my minds eye, the stage of life from being a child to a young adult is around 5 years old to puberty around 12 or 13 years old. I remember in middle school being told by teachers us classmates were young adults.

In my dream I would have been a young adult at home in my dad’s house in the awkwardness of puberty. I cried out, “Dad help” in my dream then woke up. My desk is next to a lamp next to my bed. I got up to type. My desk is also my office space. The light on the ceiling is off. I got up and turned the heater on and saw through the dark to my desk and chair.

I just got up to smoke a cigarette. Outside at the door of the apartment I call home. I stood facing the street looking beyond where my minivan is parked on the parking lot, beyond the road, above the curb on the other side of the road on the neighbor’s lawn is a tree. The tree is tall and alive and directly in view across from the entrance to the apartment. It’s a quiet night, early in the wee hours of a new day. I put the cigarette out before finishing it then rinsed the smell of tobacco off my hands and gulped milk from the gallon container in the fridge. I live alone. There is no one else to take offense from me drinking directly from the milk container. In the dark I dogged wet spots on the carpet where my dog peed. Later in the morning would be a good time to shampoo the carpet in my room where the dog pees and poops sometimes when I’m away at work during the day.

There was smoking when I was a young adult. My dad smoked. I started smoking regularly when I was going to middle school.

Maybe I’m finally getting over the reoccurring dreams I have while I sleep of my dad’s house. I don’t want to be haunted by them.