I dreamed last night that marauders had gone into my parents’ home (they were still alive), poured gasoline on them and set them on fire; my beloved (deceased) son, Adam, too. Then, the dream transformed and my mother and I were traveling the country in a truck, staying in filthy hotel rooms. We traveled for ten years together, living roughly and on the edge.
My mother disappeared on me and I was suddenly in the bed of an old boyfriend. I desperately wanted to make love to him, but while I was on my trek he had had children with another woman. There were children throughout the house, children of multiple nationalities. The other woman entered the room and yelled at us.
Before I left the house, my old boyfriend told me to get the mail he had been collecting for me. There were acceptance letters from numerous publishers for the book I had been writing of the ten years on the road. This made me excited.
The dreamed turned back to the burning of my beloveds. I was completely distressed, needing to ask them questions, needing my mother’s love. I woke myself up, confused and sad that the only people who could answer my questions, who could answer my questioning heart were long gone.