Last night, I dreamed about traveling to Sydney, Australia, with my sons, to see my mother. The travel was, as it usually is for me in dreams, confusing, last-minute, fraught with mix ups.
My mother’s apartment was dark, with rooms off of a long hall (but it was not my childhood New York City apartment on 116th Street, which had a super-long hall). My mother was there the whole time, but, as usual, I cannot remember anything she said (if anything).
I tried to have dinner with my stepbrother’s partner (a step-sister not-in-law?) the night before I was to return home to the States, but we could not find each other in the city. Mobile phones and texting failed us. I ran through unfamiliar and dark parks, feeling like I was always going to long or wrong way.
After the failed dinner, I returned to my mother’s apartment and the boys were asleep. When I had to do a load of laundry in the toilet, I questioned the wisdom of combining the two appliances (if you can call a toilet an appliance).
We were to leave first thing in the morning. My bags were not packed, and I was trying to dye my hair fire-engine red (which I have actually been wanting to do for a while). I worried as the flight time approached, my clothes were still in the toilet, the boys were still asleep, and I was running out of hair dye.