Dreaming

I don’t often remember my dreams. Maybe once every few years will I have a dream that sticks with me longer than it takes to think about waking up.

A few days ago, I had a memorable one.

For whatever reason, former president Donald J. Trump was trying to kill me and my wife. Being sane people, my wife and I decided to flee our hometown to the relative safety of the home of my wife’s parents, roughly 80 miles distant.

Given the ambiguity of dreams, I can’t say exactly where we were in our flight to safety but at some point along the way, we were caught. Trump, in a gaudy white Cadillac with gold trim, rolled up along side us as we walked along a dirt road. There was some unknown and threatening lurker in the front passenger seat, Don Jr. was in the rear passenger seat and a second unknown lurker was in the rear seat on the driver’s side.

For whatever logic that made perfect sense in the dream, I had my car keys in hand. Why weren’t we driving the car? I don’t know. But what I do know is that I noticed Don Jr.’s window was rolled down. I casually stepped forward and shoved my car key into his neck. Blood spurted, he died. Trump slowly drove off, arguing some indistinguishable fine point with his lurkers.

And that, my friends, is the only dream I have remembered in months and months and months.