we are driving somewhere to go skydiving, but we have to turn the car around because I forgot to pack my ripcord.
Maine was not too hot or too cold. It was a sleepless place, an empty vacationland stage. There was water and there was dirt, and tall grass that my dog kept eating. She kept eating the grass even though she wouldn't finish her breakfast. An anomaly. Is that the right word? I tried to reintroduce my beast to the wilderness for a while, where I thought she belonged, and when she turned her nose to the air, she seemed tired at best, lost at worst. She took the trails in reverse, stepping back into the car where I belted her in. I once read that if I were to crash the car while traveling just 30 mph, my 75-lb canine would become a 3,000 pound projectile. Thanks, physics, for helping me imagine my dog as a missile capable of killing me or someone else. I guess it's not physics to thank, though: it is everyone who has gone before me, faced the unexpected, and came out hurting and destroyed, or even devastated.
Last night, I dreamt that I was in a parking garage trying to steer clear of someone who was trying to hit me with his car. I wasn't in a car, though, and in parking garages, there really are no places to hide. Somehow I found myself in a small body crouched high on a shelf, out of his line of sight. I couldn't see his face through the windshield, but I knew he was driving. He kept circling and circling, looking for me as if I would suddenly appear: a target, a bullseye, his car the missile sent to destroy me. Instead of appearing, I took a deep breath and woke up.