The Recurring Dream

One upon a time there was a young girl sitting at the breakfast table hunched over her cereal bowl, just as she was every weekday morning. Each morning this girl would tell her unlistening family about her recurring dream, a dream she had nearly every night. “What are you babbling on about?” snapped her older, incredibly tedious sister. This sliver of attention was her cue to retell the dream again, in the hopes someone would take an interest.  She recited to her scurrying family how when she goes to sleep each night she watches and feels herself inflating like a balloon, then floating out of her bedroom window.  She drifts gently down the street and above the town. She could calibrate her elevation, speed and direction easily in the dream and would often challenge her ability to direct her inflated self agily through tree branches and over power lines. This flying part was the best part of the dream really.  It was the best feeling she has ever had in her entire life.  

One morning she didn’t arrive at the breakfast table as usual.  Her self absorbed and aloof family barely noticed her absence.  Once her vacancy was finally noted by her mother, her heavy, over -competent sister was sent trodding down the hall to see if she was still asleep in her  room.  

“Hey brat, wake up”  the sister barked as she pushed her way into the overdone 1970s modern decorated room.  There were four walls painted tan with a parallel orange and dirt brown stripe geometrically looping across the entire wall. The bed is rumpled, slept in, not made, empty.  Quick glances beneath the bed and in the closet, both empty.  The older sister quickly clobbers back down the hall with her report “She’s not there!”

The mother shuffles into goes to the missing daughters bedroom and sits on the still warm bed.  The family scatters to search for other parts of the house.   Slowly, and lackadaisical at first, calling out her name, eventually they slip slowly into a panic and begin rushing from room to room. They all gradually return to the missing girls room. The mother holds a bed pillow to her face, breathes it in and begins to cry.  The idea that her baby has been kidnapped percolates through her thoughts.  All are standing in the room with the blatant exception of its owner.  The missing girls  dog, Sam,  wanders in and leaps upon his mistresses vacant bed. He is the silent observer, loyal, knowing all but never letting on.

The father prepares himself for work, his departing words to his wife are “stop sniffling, I am certain she is pulling a prank. She’ll turn up, like a bad penny, always does.”  He then turns accusatory towards the oldest “and I’m sure you’re in on this!” He glares at them both as he drives away in his yellow Toyota Supra with slanted black matte spoiler and matching hubs.

The older sister rolls her eyes and simply denies any knowledge of where the brat is.  Grumbling “where is the plug to the hot rollers?” she just knew her punk  younger sister had it last. She begrudgingly leaves for school with flat hair.

The mother, finally alone in the house, begins in earnest to investigate her youngest daughter’s disappearance. She carefully looks through drawers and in the back of her closet, is anything missing?  Would she know if something was?  Is there a note? She silently wonders about  all the animal posters with catchy sayings taped on the ceiling.  How long has she had those up?  What shoes does she have on?  She goes to the phone mounted in the hall and makes calls to neighbors and friends. She doesn’t notice the fuzzy bit of navy blue fabric snagged on the aluminum window pane. 

Back in the empty room, in the empty bed, under the warm sheets, next to Sam lies the young girl.  She is back in her own body, back in her own room, back to her normal size.  She tosses back her covers and softly pads her way to the breakfast table to her bowl of cereal lying in wait for her. As she begins to slurp the milk on the spoon she notices a small tear on the bottom hem of her NASA stars and planets pjs.  The End