There is always one bossy ass bird. He digs himself a naked hole in the dense mockorange, puffs out his chest and sings at 11. The sparrows who live there too roll their eyes and go on about collecting tufts of red dog hair from between the fence slats to make their nests luxurious— and soundproof.
“How often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.” -Khalil Gibran, “The Prophet”
In my dream, I walked with my god through his sacred orange grove. The trees all had white bark. That was important somehow, the white bark coming off like ash, but healthy healthy. The trees were all so healthy.
Today, walking my puppy, I came across two lemons on the sidewalk. It was around the side of someone’s house, not near any trash cans. No wind had been blowing so they hadn’t come on the wind. There was no lemon tree leaning over the fence or anywhere nearby. It was as if someone had been walking that way and dropped these two lemons for me to see and follow like breadcrumbs, but sour and more vividly colored.
I thought of my god’s white barked orange grove and could this have been my god walking this corner, dropping these citrus fruits for me? Do oranges in the dream orchard become lemons on the waking dirty street? Dreams communicate this way in the sleeping and waking dream. Color color, symbol symbol, the promise of a taste. A god that walked that way before you. Mystery.
The Star is the center. All Things revolve around it—the Room, dimly lit—the flashing Optics—gilded mirrors that Turn on time—doors pulling Themselves open and closed— Gears, wheels, sprockets, Springs—gods, humanity— All dizzy things.
All gone to oranges now once flamed with pink on spring green tendrils that climbed our matching dresses to touch the shocking white of our lacy bib collars accented at the throat with plum satin bows. My sister smiles a broad white that reflects my broken child’s hair. I smile with my teeth out a touch. Light bounces from the lenses of my half-transitioned Coke bottles, near permanently dim, to one of my sister’s neatly arranged auburn Botticelli curls—one twist of many about her I envy.
We each have one hand on a taxidermy-stiff, red eyed plush bunny the photographer shoved between us to encourage something shared and quiet. The closest he got us to sisterhood that day was leaned-away touching at the shoulder— the furthest torso point from our hearts.
All gone to adulthood now and Valentine’s Day vacuum cleaners received with kisses like hand cut doilies, my sister and I have become pre-midlife reawakened to something like crystal-sucking New Agers without the liberalism, too much nature stuff, or any urgent concerns about the patriarchy.
I step off the train on a wet, sky-spitting Saturday night to celebrate my sister’s 29th-again birthday. There is streaked silver in the puddles through which the train runs, upside down, loping on to LA. My sister wears a demure sweater as accent to a royal purple petticoat that flounces in the whoosh of the train. I wear an oversized silver lotus petal with seven fake stones masking a magnifying glass behind. We hug.