I’m standing in the middle of a road on the crest of a long hill. It’s night. Above me, no stars in the sky, no moon. Everything is still. I feel no night breeze on my skin. I hear no rubbing of katydid wings, no chirps and trills of tree frog, no buzzing of mosquito.
Below me, the road leads into a “town”, a single street, with a row of identical houses lining both sides. No cars drive by for me to get out of the way, no joggers or leashed dogs on walks.
They are all inside.
I walk, down the middle of this road, down the hill.
I reach the houses. Lights are on inside, but they don’t fall through the window frames onto their yards. Porch lights off. Streetlamps missing. All light is contained within each house.
There are people inside, families, friends. I can’t see them, but I know they are there.
I look at the houses as I walk down the street.
Until I stop. I turn from where I am to look more closely at the house on my left. The sidewalk leading up to the porch draws me to itself, and I approach it.
I step up to the porch, a small concrete square. I stand in front of the door, where I can see more clearly into the window just to the right. I can see life living itself.
I see people inside. They’re laughing and talking. There’s food and drink, though I can’t see it from where I am. I know it’s there, like I know there are children in other rooms, playrooms and game rooms beyond my vision, in the kitchen asking for dessert, or a snack, or to help.
There’s movement and commotion, the kind that makes you smile, people bustling around, getting ready for dinner or cleaning up afterward. There’s camaraderie, the kind that comes not from crowded rooms but from belonging.
A woman gets up from her seat, her face softly laughing like she just heard a joke or made one. I see the nod of the back of someone’s head, their shoulders lightly jiggle, expressing appreciation or delight for whatever was said.
The sights and sounds of conversation, and laughter from this home, unlike the others, spill into the yard, a feel-good brew of sound, and light, and good company. I know this though I hear none of it. I see only the shadows of those passing by the window in the soft edged frame of light on the grass.
I stand on the porch, in front of the door, looking in from the outside. I want to go in.
But I don’t knock, and I don’t reach for the knob.
Because I know, even if the door was unlocked, it would not open for me.
I always wake up here. It’s what I remember whether with a start or gradually with the diffuse morning light.
I think I was in 5th or 6th grade when I first had this dream. It returned, intermittently, throughout my early teens.
I’ve had other recurring dreams, theme-wise. They were about Evil, a palpable presence with a capital “E”, of being chased, or cornered, or the worst, facing it in a crowd of people who don’t see it. The theme was the same, but the context changed.
For this dream, there were no different versions or different contexts. It was always the same setting, the same sequence, and details.
I don’t have this dream anymore, but the memory of it comes to me now and then. It quietly appears when a tectonic plate shifts inside me, and a tremor is felt, the precursor for what will break open. It surfaces when a new injury lies too close to this dream.
The dream always ends here—standing on the porch, looking in, unable to knock, not trying the door, knowing, even if unlocked, the doorknob will not turn for me.
Sometimes, in doing a deeper dive, it’s not about retrieving lost memories of what you experienced, but messages your heart has been longing to give you, messages that you hadn’t been ready to receive, or having received, couldn’t accept.
The memory of this dream has been reappearing lately.
This time, I do not stand next to this part of me in equal muted silence. This time, I put my hand on her shoulder and say, It’s time to find another house… It’s time to get off this street.
I can see her smile, tenative and sweet. I can hear sound rustling in the background. It may be a night breeze glide-skipping through leaves. I feel a wall of pain rising up inside of me and bittersweet hope of home. I can feel it all…
My aging hand wraps around her young hand.
We take the first step off the porch, together.
From my heart to yours,
Demian Elaine’ Yumei ~ Silent No More
“This time, I do not stand next to this part of me in equal muted silence. This time, I put my hand on her shoulder and say, It’s time to find another house… It’s time to get off this street.”
🙌🙌🙌🙌❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
THIS moment and other moments like these in healing are so damn potent.
Such a resonant and beautiful piece, Demian. Thank you for sharing.
So so beautiful, as always. ❤️❤️❤️