As a kid I had a recurring nightmare
about this vast, open, desolate field,
horizon to horizon—no hills, no trees,
nothing grew as far as my eyes could see.
There were huge, hulking, rotting windmills
spinning so slowly in the breeze.
There was also a giant white circus tent,
glowing yellowish white.
Inside there was nothing,
just empty space.
I'm in a airplane with my sister and my mom
and a bunch of other people I don't know.
It has seats but no overhead luggage compartments,
So it has a high rounded ceiling.
The plane slowly turns upside down
kind of like an amusement park ride.
Folks are strapped into their seats
but I slip out and am hanging upside down,
holding onto the armrest. I'm not scared.
The plane rights itself. I settle back into my seat.
I'm sitting next to my sister, but she is 9 years old—
the age she was when I moved out (in reality she is 22).
We are both wearing oversized white t-shirts as dresses,
like you would wear to the beach.
I've got a protective arm around her.
Oh yeah . . . my mom is much younger too.