“They’ll be men yet,” he sighed, elbowing me in the ribs. I shook my head, but couldn’t hold back a smirk.

“A little bit of the devil in all-of-em,” I said. “Boys…”

“They say times change, but it’s only the weather.” said Father Kaveatz. He grabbed a high ball glass of scotch with his meaty hands, wiping the glass’s perspiration on the front of his tight, black cassock. A quick swig smoothed the crease of tension from his tan forehead and he stared down at his dining room table. He unwrapped a small stack of letters, pulled his silver letter opener from the top desk drawer, and sat down. He made quick work of the envelopes then patted down his pockets.

“Can’t read a damn thing without my glasses.”

I watched his dark eyes closely for a moment or two. And all while, I twirled the rosary in my habit pocket, testing my strength by resisting the strong urge to scratch the itch underneath my rayon apostolnik.

“May I?” I asked, reaching toward the binoculars. He nodded and I carefully positioned them in front of my bifocals. My skinny wrinkled fingers struggled to control a tremor. Still, I saw Craig Simmons, Damon Jones, and little Michael Stenson. Their faces were twisted and barely audible screams reached my old ears. But the action moved too fast. A bit dizzy, I set the binoculars down on Father’s desk.

“Such violence,” I mumbled. “After all this time, can’t we find a better…”

“We’re all animals,” he said as he took a long slug. He sucked down a wet breath, exhaled fragrantly, and stared out the window again.

“Sister, the sooner they realize…the sooner they’ll be ready.”

I watched him watching for what must have been five minutes. The smooth rosary beads felt cold against my aching fingers. I must have been in communication with the Holy Spirit, because I don’t remember thinking a single thought. Once back in focus, I pulled Father’s eyeglasses from third drawer down and placed them on top of his desk. He was still deep in thought as I exited the room.

James clothesline-tackled Craig, catching his throat in the crook of his arm and twisting through the collision. The ball flew into the air for a moment and through the gauntlet of saliva, I snagged it, scampering past the nearby end zone marker. I spiked the ball mercilessly and with what was considered the appropriate display of triumphant male aggression, I raised my fists to the sky. Thank God for James and his physical prowess. Damon now owes me 15 friendship bracelets.

Shrieks of pain and the sound of flesh slapping flesh brought me down from my cloud. Damon, drooling with anger, slammed James’s head into the dirt. Like any oxford playground gang member, I sprinted to his aid with wild swinging arms. Hands from behind closed around my neck and I swung around, kicking for the groin.

To think, it had all started as a lovely metaphor: football. Alas, we removed the formalities and carved our own fiefdoms. Each day after, we chose sides and clashed with righteous anger… only bringing the ball along for liability insurance.

All so Roman, all so Catholic – blood in the sand, blood in the grass – conflict mediation, ego adjustments…guilt. It takes a lot of industrial bleach to turn mud blood white.

A non-nun sat my brother and I down on the curb. Our Ivan Drago crew cuts glistened in the afternoon sun. I fidgeted, rubbing at the dirt between my eyes. He twiddled his daydreaming thumbs.

“The twin terrors,” she stated like a detective. Her arms swung behind her back as she paced back and forth in front of us. “You will be sitting in the hallway during recess for the next two weeks.”

Thank heavens nobody inquired about the Spanish. Our holy land was in good hands.

I am from the leaky pouch,
From pickled cucumbers and root beer Dum Dums.
I am from Boys vs. Girls and too much TV tag.
I’m from Robbie Eggers’ Voila,
And strike, spare, 92.
I am from mattresses gone wrong,
And Slip’nThud. It was peer pressure?
I am from the cupboard under the stairs,
And the pennies under the bleachers.
I am from green and gold.

I am from the shaving cream war,
And the mysterious chimney pet.
I’m from Saturday morning piano lessons after no practice,
And a Frappuccino to celebrate passing the song anyway.
I’m from the year of the foolishly wise,
And hoping to stay wisely foolish,
Because, most of all,
I am from knowing the limits.

OK, shutting up now;
happy weekend, you mass–
(or individual chemical re-balancing– )
opiate sufferers.

Timothy Leary’s dead.

Long live awareness.

So need to focus

So need a plan

So much furniture to move

So many walls to wash

So many knick knacks to dust

So much to sweep

So much to toss

So much to lay order upon

So many boxes and bags

So much to budget

So many leases to sign

So many books to buy

So much to scour

So much to mop

So many trucks to load

So many debts are owed

So heavy the sun

So much to readjust

If we can’t go lie on a raft at the lake later, it’s to the detriment of all.

Car wheels on a gravel road, I remember vividly being four years old sitting on the arm rest of a 69 Plymouth whose floorboards had rusted away, no seat belt, let alone a car seat, going for a ride with you and Poppy.  The omnipresent blue cooler close at hand: PBR for Poppy and Miller Lite for you, throwing the cans out of the holes in the floor.  You defintely weren’t much of an environmentalist. 

Thanks to you, my Heaven better have a section of Salt Creek on a cool day when the crappie are bighting.  A fresh supply of pickled bologna, crackers, and colby at hand and enough bait to make sure our bucket of little panfish would turn into a pile of fresh fillets coated in cracker meal to be fried in an electric skillet.  I have yet to taste fish that rivals.  We’ll have some when I meet you there. 

I wish I could have snagged your 78 Caprice with the bubble back window before you sold it, white with sky blue interior.  Its eternal reek of Vantage 100’s present even after you had quit for two years. 

The long winter after Poppy died when I was eleven, I remember sitting up with you and your insomnia, watching QVC while you fidgeted, trying to do something to occupy your racing mind like the rest of us mourning your husband of forty years, our Poppy.  I can see us laughing as you did your hair in a snow storm, curlers and Aquanet at the kitchen table.  It turned out perfect.  All dolled up and nowhere to go!

We ate chili instead and watched the snow pile on the deck. 

The spring after you were sawn in half for a quadruple by-pass.  You smoked your last cigarette in the parking lot on the way into Saint Francis and never touched another.  I hope to thrown them down soon too. 

Six years ago, we got the confirmation.  Lung carcinoma.  Ever the fighter, you held on two years.  I’m so glad you got to see O Brother ,where art thou?.  You had lived that childhood in tar paper shacks you could throw a dog through, driven model A Fords with your cousins working the floor pedals while another one steered, you watched Lake Monroe flood and claim Grandma Crider’s house.  You lived to see me become a man of 24 years.  

Your last week, Kelli and I being the witches we are, knew you were going to go.  I didn’t work.  I spent every minute talking with you.  Diabetes be damned, you were going to have every sweet we could rustle up with a side of Oxycontin and a cup of coffee.  I still remember your last meal when you finally had to go to the hospital.  Mom and I got you a big honking slice of Lemon Meringue pie..your favorite.  

I went home on May 6th to 115 S Bryan Avenue, ate a handful of Xanax and half slept.  The phone rang and I knew, poor Mom in her tired Abraham Lincoln demeanor said, ”Brad, you better get up here, her fingernails are turning blue.”  I flew to Bloomington Hospital and gathered around the death bed.  For all practical purposes you were gone.  Morphine shots left you to be nothing but moans and what sounded like a greasy paper sack rattling in your chest.  Kelli bent down, said “Brad’s here, we’re all here.”  Mom nodded to the nurse for another shot of morphine.  One gasp, two gasps, then, the last rattle.  I touched your hand.  It felt like cold lunch meat.  We wailed in relief and grief.

I still see you in all of us who possess your blood, and for that I am thankful.  So, today, I think I will play hookey, get a bucket of minnows, a six pack of cheap beer, a folding chair, pack up a fishing pole, and commune with you, making sure to pick some black-eyed susans to lay where you rest under the Poplar tree.

Just because it’s summer, there’s not always a last rose
Baseballs fly into bats, and bats fill up on mosquitoes
Camping corpses marinate in DEET, but still they are a-slappin’
Pedro’s fire works, as does yours, and explosions are happ’nin’

Mother nature’s boiling vengeance, roiling from the Verde Cape
Canes hurry west, and walkers creak feebly– trying to escape
The baleful glare of Old Sol stares into your face until very late
And the fiddling cricket song of heat barely ever does abate

But we can cook with fire
Stumble home from beach, good-tired
Concerts on the lawn
Jammin’ until dawn
Another corny campfire song
About love and ire

The sun shines down on the ritual of SPF one-hundred-ten
Fire on your skin, calling up melanin, it’s Summer again
Even if you just sit around very fast, or labor in meditation
Make the most of it, and call it a vacation.

Hi.

No, you’re not disturbing me at all. I always have time for you. In fact, I’m glad to hear from you… it seems to be kind of rare these days. I know you’re busy. I keep pretty busy myself, as you might guess. I’m happy whenever you take time out to talk with me… I’m here for you.

I’ve just been working on some furniture. It was a cabinet I once saw Norm Abram making on the Old Yankee Workshop show. Surprised? Why? I worked in carpentry for years while I was living among you all. It was good, honest work.

I came there, in what would now be jeans, a t-shirt, and boots, to see how it was for you to live in the working class. I am not into the flashy, royal, silver-spoon-and-limousine treatment. That’s garish.

If I were to sit down on the steps of a big, shiny televangelist’s church altar “set,” during a live broadcast, in my jeans, t-shirt, and boots, would you let me stay? Would you listen to me, or would you have burly deacons escort me out before I could share with you?

I would say that the trappings don’t matter… and if you want to know the simplest way to follow the Way, it’s this:

1. Love the Lord with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.

2. Be excellent to each other.

Yes, Bill S. Preston, Esquire and Ted “Theodore” Logan condensed “Love your neighbor as you love yourself” into the real essence of what I meant.

Station.

One of the greatest followers of the Way, who never called himself Christian, was Mohandas Gandhi. He really got it. Check him out as an example of how to do this gift of life you’ve received.

You know, while I’m thinking of it, I did want to say something about you calling my name, or Dad’s, as an exclamation. We’re both looking forward to hearing from you, and when you use our names to express anger, but don’t ask us to help you with your frustration, it’s pretty disappointing.

Think of someone shouting your name out, like they need you to rush to their aid, and then they bat you away as soon as you respond. Frustrating.

And speaking in that way, please stop being haughty, smug, and sanctimonious. No one likes that… least of all me. I want you all to enjoy life harmoniously. I don’t ask everyone to believe in me, but I do ask my believers to be as considerate to everyone else as they expect to be considered.

That’s why Dad gave all of you free will. No one is a “yes-man puppet.”

I do forgive you when you ask it of me. But please don’t take my concept in vain. Those who cause great wars against your fellow travelers, for oil or strategic military placement against other nations– nations with a hard-core underground of dear friends who call themselves Christians also– and do so in my name– aren’t following the Way. This goes for your cousins, too, who call out to Mohammad as their prophet.

I weep.

He stood against the brick, outer wall of the walk-in clinic, wearing fake Oakley sunglasses and a sporty polo shirt tucked into bright red basketball shorts. The accompanying red and white sneakers completed his “am I an assistant high school basketball coach?” wardrobe. His beginner’s beer belly confirmed this as he rubbed his goatee with concern.

“It’s just crazy.” He paced around with the monologue apparently continuing inside his head for the moment.

“Yeah, but the TV news and internet make it seem that way. Weather’s always been unpredictable,” said the woman behind me.

The others in line chimed in now — nodding their sentiments as we all waited for the clinic to open.

He started up again.

“I’ve been an administrator at a Christian school for over five years. We ain’t never seen nothin’ like this. Flooding everywhere. People just tryin’ to get out.”

The line compacted and shuffled closer to the sliding doors. A nurse stood just in sight, dutifully unlocking as the clock struck 1:00.

First in line, I received my new patient paperwork and settled into a waiting room chair. It was quick, repetitive work and I handed it back two minutes later. By then, it seemed I was third on the list. My chest pains were not deemed as crucial as the looming, sweating obesity of those around me. Gads, they could have croaked at any moment.

“Mr. Koop, what seems to be the trouble?”

“Chest pain.”

“I see. Now, is it stabbing, throbbing, or pressure?”

“Feels like someone is sitting on my chest. Sometimes, at night, it…”

“I see. Good. Now let’s get that shirt off. We’ll fix you up for an EKG.”

“It gets worse when I try to sleep. Also, I’ve been stressed. Do you think…”

“Just lay down right here and…”

I removed my shirt quickly and climbed carefully onto the sanitary paper patient pad. She began lubing me up for the suction cups.

“When I breathe in it feels like…”

“Now, we’ve reached the portion of the test where you shouldn’t talk. What’s the name of your insurance company?”

“Anthem. One time the doctor told me…”

“Please, don’t speak. The test.”

She pointed to the electrodes on my chest. A minute later she removed them and said,”You can put your shirt back on — the doctor will be with you shortly.”

True enough, she was in shortly. If nothing else, this care was prompt. I rambled through my disjointed list of symptoms and she stared at me somewhat sympathetically–the look you might give a dog struggling with a cone around its neck.

“Pleurisy. Take two Aleve, twice a day. Unless you want a prescription for something stronger.”

“Aleve works for me. Can I still drink coffee. Run?”

“I don’t see why not. Just take it easy.”

She left the room quickly, scrawling onto her medical clipboard all the while. I poked my head into her tiny office.

“So I can…”

“Yeah, you can just go. No need to check out.”

I breathed a little easier as I headed for the door. Alas, it was locked and I stood befuddled.

“Mr. Koop?” called the Nurse Ratched clone at the front desk. “I’m going to need your co-pay.”

Thirty-five dollars later I felt some measure of relief. Not dying today…I thought.

I sifted through the remains of the decimated Sunday paper.  The headlines were mostly negative, as expected.  There seemed to be a common theme uniting them, though:  Man-hating was hot.  For some reason, pundits couldn’t understand that I find Hillary Clinton disingenuous; apparently the fact that she’s a woman was more important in their eyes.  Same thing with Sex and the City.  Just disliking the movie apparently was a sign of blatant sexism.

Even seemingly gender-neutral news like oil prices were laced with anti-white male rhetoric: “It’s just the man profiting off us,” one young student lamented.  I immediately felt burdened with years of other people’s shortcomings.  This must be what a heart attack is like.  Good thing I’m not so old yet.

Perturbed and a little sweaty, I threw the pile of paper into the garbage.  “At least I know how I really feel,” I consoled myself as I ate some granola.  I thought about turning on the television, but decided that the media gods were probably conspiring against me and opted for my iPod instead.  Unfortunately, Steve Jobs and company must have thought my misery funny as Alanis Morissette came on to remind me that she’d go down on me in a theater.  I quickly skipped to the next song.  Jim James’ wail always soothes my nerves, and all was right for a few bites as I finished breakfast.

I thought about taking a walk around the lake, and eventually settled on that as a decent plan of action.  There’s usually a nice breeze coming off of the water and the sun was shining.  What could go wrong?  Plenty, it seemed.  Just being alive was enough to offend many by the water.  I could feel the glares from old and young alike as I ambled along the shoreline, their well-shaped eyebrows forming a sea of scowls.

Maybe I’ll just go home.  Naps are always nice on a Sunday.  I’ll just have to gamble that my subconscious won’t work against me as well.

Bill nodded his head slowly, looking down with solemn concentration. Blue and red chips were spread across his Disabled Veteran’s Lodge Super Bingo Board. He laid down a red piece and turned his eyes to Darryl.

“I used to sit around after school and watch tv — man… those commercials with the big jets. Respect. I just knew I’d be coming back with a medal and a girl on each arm. Great job, big house.”

Bill continued nodding as he scrutinized his chips carefully. His cane rested at his side — leaning against the heavily worn, eight foot wooden table in front of them.

“But, look. My leg is gone — shrapnel torn to hell. Can’t get no job. All I get is lip. Thank you, brave servicemen and women. Ultimate sacrifices. Yeah, how ’bout thanking us with some body armor — maybe some benefits. I can still see Sgt. Tua’s blood everywhere. It don’t wash out.”

“BINGO!” Bill stood slowly, holding his winning card in hand. The excitement caused a tremor in his hand. “FREE dinner,” he mumbled excitedly.

He gently lowered back into his seat with one hand placed on his lower back for support. He turned his full attention to Darryl now — taking off his large bifocals and cracking his long, wrinkled fingers.

“They’ll burn for this,” he said. “Big oil cowboys.” He sighed and a pained look crossed his time weathered face. Reaching instinctively for a cigarette, he found nothing in his shirt pocket.

“We had reasons. It was a damn mess, but I like to think we did some good. More than bad anyhow. This endless… what we’ve got now… Greed. How’d they rope you in, young man?”

“No place to be. Minimum wage or the Army. Dad said get out, Son. Be a man. You know what? He cries when he sees me. I cry too. Some men we are. I tell you, Pops. I got a whole squad of boys still over there. Only family I got. What am I gonna do here?”

“You’d think the ol’ “maverick” would care about us. Sure says he does. Says we should be thrilled about a gas tax holiday when every day is tax free day for fat cat oil execs and politicians.”

“Yeah, he’ll say whatever whomever whenever to get in. After that it’ll be the same ol’ bull.”

A warm faced old woman in a bright red sweater and polka dotted slacks approached the two men.

“Your prize, Bill.” She eyed him maternally and handed over a coupon covered in bright corporate logos. REDEEMABLE AT THE FOLLOWING PARTICIPATING RESTAURANTS, ” it said.

“Wanna get outta here? Get a hot meal?”

“No know it, Pops.”

They limped slowly for the door. Bill stopped to take a breath, then spoke.

“You know, Nixon was a “maverick” too. But, not even he voted to ok water torture.”

Look at nature: there are no contentious factions in an ant colony or segregated groups of salmon.  Ever met a racist leopard?

Diversity is cause for celebration, not fuel for divisive conflict.

How can people contend with an uncertain future when they are so firmly rooted in the past?

Striving to reach an unseen finish line.

Drenched with effort, drained, aching,

I race ahead, the beat of my heart reassuring me I am almost there-

I will be happy soon.

Running, I am full of cold, consuming hatred,

Bleeding sweat and bitter tears of impotent rage,

Knowing I am disappearing, paying the highest price

For a crown of vapor.

I can see the crown in my mind,

Elusive, evanescent, imaginary,

A vision of sweet cool rest from the seething anger,

The hot desperate fury at my powerlessness

To sate my thirst for vicious revenge

To make someone pay for this unfathomably deep well of haunting pain.

I pound my feet on the hard uneven path of time

As I fruitlessly seek absolution for my humanity,

Each step a prayer bead on the path

To forgiveness for my fallibility, for my inability to forget though I try so desperately-

I am a prisoner, tortured by my cruel taunting memory.

I run with every fiber of my being,

Looking forward, daring not to look back or to stop even briefly

Because to stop would mean to hear the small sorrowful cry of the soul

Wanting to return to how it used to be-

Needing, wanting, crying to be freed

To stop running vainly on the treadmill of moments

Captive to doubt

Living in place

Chasing the lost wind.

By denying myself a moment of opportunity to step down and stop fighting,

I allow my existence to be defined only

By non-existent destinations.

Except render me powerless with unspent range,

Unable to shed the blood I would risk all to see run?

Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Oh yeah?

So DO something, damn it-

Or let my own hand deal the destructive blow,

Let me feel in my blood the unchained rush of satisfying

Fury finally allowed to vent.

What I would give to see that beautiful innocent mask

Worn by the cold void monster’s soul

Sliced in two by the knife I wield.

But all I can do is imagine.

Words are just an angry symptom,

A caged life transformed by fruitless hatred

Into a soul just as empty as Its.

And then I dreamed.

I was walking through the hallway at Giuseppe High (a Red-Ribbon School of Awesomeness), or somewhere– maybe it was actually IU, because at this point, that would make more sense. But I knew my way around. It was after religion fourth period, and I was really having trouble remembering my schedule for a minute, but I had it figured out. But I had ended the period without having fallen asleep once, so I was pretty proud of myself.

I saw Julie and was talking to her in the hall. There was this weirdo ramp thing, too, and it had little dents cut into it like it was supposed to look like really gradually-sloped stairs, but it wasn’t. I was joking, and I swear in my head it was funny, and I said, “Don’t climb up those stairs, Julie.” I don’t know. They were silly stairs. She never heard me, though, because we were separated in the crowd. I was walking up the stairs and I got more and more lost as I got off on different levels that looked nothing like Giuseppe High. I didn’t know where the heck I was going.

Mr. Sagely-Mozart or somebody came over the intercom guy and said something about a drill like yesterday’s, which made sense in my head because I had a weirdo vague memory of being evacuated the day before. I wasn’t concerned with that, though, because I was pretty sure I was in the part of the building where you didn’t have to evacuate, because it was like a Media Center, only I think this part was my own mental depiction of some obscure branch of IU. Anyway, I saw some random faces that I recognized, like Brandon Peculiar and Angelina Foaler– Angelina, if you read this, I don’t get it either…. I don’t remember whether I’ve ever spoken to you before. And I’m not trying to be unfriendly, I swear; I just get weird and uncomfortable around people I don’t know well, especially when the ratio of people I know to people I don’t know isn’t in my favor.

Mrs. Kilometers would “D” me for sure if she read that ridiculous run-on/fragment.

I also saw Mr. Nieleggings, and after a short period of messing absentmindedly around on a computer, I became concerned. What were we all doing here, and where were we? I couldn’t be on Channel Nine, because I don’t have Channel Nine, and neither does Brandon. And if I was at school and I had just finished fourth period, didn’t that mean I was late for class? So I approached Mr. Nieleggings.

“Do you, by any chance, know where Mrs. Kilometers is?” I was irritated with the weakness of my voice, but I needed to know, because if I was late to fifth period with Mrs. Kilometers, I would be in detention doing her filing work.

“Now, why would I know where Mrs. Kilometers is?” Mr. Nieleggings asked, and I couldn’t say, “Because you talk to her, like… every day,” now, could I? So I just shrugged and tried to explain the situation, getting all the while increasingly frantic. I’m pretty sure I was starting to cry from the combined stress of not knowing what was going on and having to talk to an authority figure by myself.

“I think you should bring me a bag of candy,” said Mr. Nieleggings. I guess he said that because he thought I was being annoying, and evidently he does have people bring in candy for such things. I am slightly ashamed of myself for dreaming of him saying that, because I don’t honestly think he would withhold information from me when I was in such a state, just to ensure a bag of candy for himself first.

I told him I’d bring him candy; of course I would. So he sent me on my way with my information, which I don’t think my imagination actually drudged up for me. I don’t really remember much more of that dream, except for I think Angelina said something that alarmed me, and I wondered, “How does she know that?” about whatever it was, and then I remembered that I’d told her the night before when we all went to see School House Rock, as performed by Kathy Olga’s middle school. Obviously, I didn’t actually see her there, as the only high school students I can recall seeing were myself, Brian Twinnish, and Joe Plasterings, whose father is the principal.

Then, the dream took me home. Everything was just perfectly normal, until I looked out the window in the dining room (or whatever you want to call it to the pool area. Then, I saw this gigantoid squid-looking thing that was some sort of space ship fairly bouncing through the air toward our house, and its legs/appendages were kicking the air like it could swim through it. I called my mom over and explained. Then I heard/felt it land on our roof.

After that, it took off and I saw it fly into the distance, and I wondered, “Is that it?”, but it wasn’t. It came back and crawled all over the fence, like something reminiscent of the movie Eight Legged Freaks, but more fluid, I think. Not that I’ve seen that movie. I have, however, seen previews.

The next time I looked out, there were gigantic tigers climbing one of the trees outside the fence. There were a whole bunch of other huge animals out there, too. I was convinced that they were going to take me away with them, because they were some form of extraterrestrial life. I had even convinced myself that every person who ever wrote a fantasy or sci-fi book got their ideas from actually being abducted by aliens/seeing actual talking tigers. Oh yeah– I think this one could talk. I just had a feeling.

Naturally, I was very concerned by the whole thing. There was also a ginormous tower– an electricity tower of some kind, I think– set up outside the fence on my far left. My mom was unconcerned. She was in a baking frenzy. There were two pans of chocolate brownies on the table, evidently having mostly been eaten; some of the sides had been cut off, like she didn’t want to eat them, but I know she likes the corners and sides most…. They were also very cake-like, which I thought was odd. It was like she put cakes in brownie pans. I dunno. She was making vanilla-flavored ones, too, which I’m pretty sure she never does unless we’re having company that really likes vanilla better than chocolate.

I tested one of the vanilla ones and found that she had put corn in them, because she’d “run out of chocolate chips.” I went with it and tried not to cringe while I finished eating it.

I kept remembering the animals and potential alien lifeforms in the pool area and making my mom look out the window. She kept not really caring. Her only concern seemed to be that the tower thing might mess with our electricity. It irritated me, so I went and hid out in my bedroom and fell asleep. Then I woke up and came out and had to ask if that had been a dream, because it was sure weird enough to be one, and she said it wasn’t.

At some point, I actually did wake up, and experience a moment of deja vu as I stumbled out of my bedroom and mumbled to my mom, who was doing laundry, that I had just had the weirdest dream. Then, I experienced deja vu again when she was entirely un-phased by the entire thing.

And now, we have caught up with the present.