Night Vision

I dreamt last night that I was sitting in a classroom. Before me was a test that I hadn't studied for, hadn't even anticipated. In fact, I had no idea how or why I was in this place. I had no pen or pencil, but fortunately was wearing clothes. I began to cry uncontrollably, as a child might over something easily remedied.

The previous night my sleep was filled with (and this is frequently the case) my dilemma of either climbing a set of stairs, steep, narrow and without a handrail, to get to the top, or to give into my fear of falling and not see what was beyond. K was once again a toddler, standing at the top and attempting to make her way down. I was unnerved by her fearlessness obviously grounded in seeing me at the bottom; her absolute trust that because I was there, she would be safe. She tripped and fell through the space. I caught her by the torso between my feet and pulled her through. Just as her face emerged above the mahogany steps, I saw another way to reach the top. To my left was a landing, easily managed with a short hop and a stairway secured with support on both sides. I instructed K to hold onto my neck, to wrap her pudgy legs around my waist. A careful measure with my eye made confident my decision to jump. We landed. I then placed K at my side and we climbed to the top, woven together in the middle by entwined fingers, tethered to the guardrail by hands, large and small, with the fragility of paper cut-outs, and the determination of a mother's love and a child's trust.