Promises for Springtime

You said that come spring
we’d sit on a bench in Central Park
Licking ice cream,
Sharing each other’s flavors.

Cookies & Cream? Dulce de Leche?
Jamoca Almond Fudge?
Maybe Raspberry Swirl.
I like how the colors go together.

Some people talk of dreaming in color.
Or not.
I met an artist once
who said she dreams in black,
because she’s afraid of color.
That’s what she said, anyway.

There are a couple of things I don’t understand about this.

I used to be afraid of color,
but now I’m not so sure.

Black used to be my favorite color,
“because it’s so cheerful,” I said.
Years before the Rolling Stones said to,
I wanted to paint my room black.
My parents thought this was weird,
so we went with pink instead.

I used to dream in that room.
I dreamt of flying,
Flying away, far above everything that ran after me,
that bothered me,
that scared me or scarred me,
that threatened me or failed to protect me.
I remembered these dreams when I awoke.

I didn’t have the flying-dream
in my room on MacArthur Boulevard –
It was a white room with white curtains.
But I had the dream again (and again!)
in my purple room on Long Island.

This was after the divorce.

I flew up Bayview Avenue,
away from the harbour,
swooping back over it.
Like the gulls, except I never landed.

I had a purple room for many years after that:
always purple or lavender,
Even in my first “adult” apartment after college:
we had a room that was purple and black.
But I didn’t have the dream anymore; maybe I didn’t need to.
I never thought about it;
didn’t even remember it
until recently.

When I really became a grown-up
– got married and had children –
I painted my whole apartment white.
Different kinds of white:
cool white, soft white, warm white,
But still: white.

A couple of years ago I switched to color.
Muted, subdued color,
but color nonetheless.

Yet the flying-dream hasn’t come back.

Frankly, I don’t understand dreaming.
If I do dream at night, I don’t remember.
So I guess that’s the same thing as not dreaming.

But who ever heard of a person who has no dreams?
Certainly I have wishes,
un-expressed thoughts, hopes, aspirations
and even fears.
If I have them only when I’m awake, does that mean they’re not dreams?
Or are my dreams buried?
Buried like my mother, my grandfather
and the children I could’ve had
but chose not to.

Or are they out there waiting,
waiting for a home,
like the souls of children
you were never able to choose to have.

1/13/06