Tempest

It is always the same dream.

The storm is approaching. I know the tornadoes are spiraling down. Or, I can see the tidal wave headed for shore. Maybe a hurricane looms on the horizon. Either way, I am caught in a tempest with no sign of escape.

I watch the sky grow dark and pregnant with fury. Someone I love is nearby but doesn't understand the storm is coming, that it is going to be devastating. I begin a maddening dash to warn them, to save them. Sometimes, I find them and they won't take me seriously. I beg and plead for them to come with me. Sometimes, I find them but we can't get far enough away. We race upstairs to avoid the water coming in through the doorways or we jump in a car and try to out run the funnel clouds touching down all around us. Sometimes, I just search until the sky rips open. But I always wake up just before I know it's too late.

In waking hours, storms give me peace. In sleep, they are monsters.

I remember in one these dreams, I was at the beach. Surfing. Sea glass hunting. I noticed that the waves were getting higher, crashing with more ferocity and foam. I backed out of the water and saw the sky turning purple. The color of a traumatic bruise. I looked around but all the other beachgoers were happy and clueless. Lightening struck. Thunder rolled. Waves crashed. Still, no one noticed. I ran for the boardwalk to warn my mother and sister. As I ran off the beach, my legs felt heavy and each glance over my shoulder made me panic. The sky was alive with destruction.

I often wonder if it means anything at all. A long time ago, someone gave me a book about the interpretations of dreams and imagery. I read that dreamers of tempests will be beset with calamitous trouble and friends will treat them with indifference. I'd rather face down a real tornado.

Letters from 1938

I just read through a stack of old love letters that my grandfather sent to my grandmother when he was stationed at Fort Monroe, Virginia. The letters start in October 1937 after a vacation they spent together. I assume it was the beginning of their courtship. (I'll have to verify this with my mother.)

The letters have yellowed with time; the edges of the envelopes are fragile. Three one-cent stamps adorn the tops. In the middle, my grandfather's neat handwriting addresses the letters to "Miss Mae Chapman Greenbackville, Va" and there is only one interruption: an old postmark stamp. I handle them with care. These are a part of my history.

I read the letters in which my grandfather announces that he wants to marry her, that he is in love with her, and that he's just sick over it. In one letter, he says he was nearly heartbroken when he discovered she had taken another date with a young man. He said he feared the new man might be a better man than him and he hoped that she wouldn't fall in love with him.

I never really knew my grandfather. He had a massive stroke when I was about 3 years old and he never really spoke much after that. I have always wondered what I missed, what experiences we could have shared, what I might have learned. He passed away a few days after I turned 16. Our story ended there.

Until tonight. Luckily for me, there are many letters left to read.