“We’re not living here any longer,” my wife announced. “We’re moving. Come on, pack up. Let’s go.”
I was bewildered. It was a dream, of course. I didn’t recognize our home, which didn’t matter. We were outside, on a busy street. So were our belongings. Cars were passing. It looked like San Francisco.
My wife was packing fast. A friend was helping. “But we don’t have anywhere else to live, honey buns,” I said, even as I began picking things up to pack.
That small matter didn’t slow my wife. She was like the a cartoon packer, collecting and putting our stuff into boxes with amazing speed. I was hesitant. A tray on a table still had my hot food. She wanted me to pack it. Instead, I furtively grabbed a handful of baby carrots in butter sauce and crammed them into my mouth.
“But hon,” I said. “Stop a minute and think. Shouldn’t we have another place to go before we pack up and go?”
No. My wife was emphatic, that this didn’t matter. We were moving. Let’s pack! So, like a dutiful spouse, I packed, eating my dinner on the side while I did. My friend, helping, saw this, and laughed.
Warning? Hope? Meaningless?
I woke up thinking, ah, we’re moving into the unknown. She’s pushing us forward, but I’m less sure, a reversal of our usual perspectives. It’ll be fun seeing what happens next.