Dream of Me

November 1

"Sweet dreams" never meant much to me growing up. My mother would always tuck me into bed, brush her nose against mine, kiss my forehead, and whisper, "Sweet dreams, my August day." Her favourite month had been August ever since she was a little girl. Her birthday was in August, she met my father in August, they got engaged in August and married the following year-in August. No one was surprised when she named her firstborn son August.

My father would sometimes peek his head through the bedroom door to say goodnight, but usually he was already reading in bed or working in his office late into the night. My mother was my best friend as I was growing up. She would walk me to pre-school every rainy Vancouver day and leave me with the umbrella, walking home in the rain. I used the umbrella when I was waiting outside for her to come and walk me back at the end of the day. She would run up to my little bundled-up body, rub her nose against mine, and join me under the umbrella for the stroll home. It was only about a 10-minute walk, but it seemed like a lifetime there and back when she was telling me stories. On the way to school, she would start telling me about her dream the previous night. She never finished until the walk home, so I was left wondering how the dream ended all through the puzzles, snacks, songs, and naps of pre-school until she came for me once again. She finished the dream on the way home, and I was always enraptured by her incredibly realistic storytelling.

One day, she told me about a scary dream she had. I was now in grade 3; she walked me to the bus stop now since I changed schools for primary. The walk was only 7 minutes, so she had to tell her stories just a bit faster.

"The big, scary man looked at me, and I backed away slowly. I tried getting closer to the open street, but he was close enough to the entrance of the back alley that I wasn't sure I could make it. He wanted something from me, I can't quite remember what it is. You know how dreams aren't always clear when you wake up, my August day? This dream is hard for me to remember."

I told her it was okay if she couldn't remember everything, but inside my curiosity was clobbering a hole into the back of my skull. "But how did you get away?"

"Oh, it's coming back now. The big, scary man came closer to me, but just as he was about to get me­"-at this, she jumped down to tickle my ribs, and I cried out after being so caught up in the story-"a big motorbike rushed down the alley and I hopped on the back. The scary man jumped out of the way and he couldn't get me. Then I woke up."

I was shocked for several seconds at the abrupt ending. That was the first time she ended the story on the morning walk instead of waiting until the end of the day-she even ended it before we got to the bus stop. "That's the end? But who was on the motorbike? And what did the man want from you?" I looked up at her, anxious and confused, feeling my heartbeat increasing and my hands getting slimy. I told you I got caught up in these stories. As I was looking up at her, her face seemed distracted. She was worried, but I didn't know why. "Mum, it's just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. Maybe you'll finish the dream tonight and then you'll know what happens. And I'll know too."

She looked down at me and smiled. "Maybe." We arrived at the bus stop and she knelt down in front of me in a flood of urgency. "August, I want you to know. I love you more than all the stars and all the seas and all the trees. You know that, right? You are my favorite August day. You are my sunshine and my rain." I wasn't sure what to say, the bus was about to stop and I was still in a daze from the abrupt story ending. "I love you too, mum," I whispered, then ran onto the bus before it left. I watched her through the window as we pulled away from the curb, and her face was tired and her eyes were heavy.

That day I could hardly concentrate in my classes. The big, scary man that had been hunting my mother stayed vibrant in my 9-year-old mind. I kept reassuring myself that it was only a dream. Maybe she was worried about something at home. The baby was feeling sick this week, she had been crying throughout the night. My mom was tired. She was just suffering from lack of sleep. I decided this was the reality halfway through the day and by the time 3pm rolled around, I was not as worried about her anymore. I would tell her to take a nap when we got home and I would watch the baby. Dad could help me when he got home from work. The plan was flawless, and I imagined how grateful my mother would be when I told her on the way home.