From the Ashes, the Death of a Dream

I found this among some of my old writing and it felt appropriate.


The words seem harmless enough: "the death of a dream." A friend of mine tosses them out with regularity to describe painful situations, usually when something longed for is lost or never realized. It seems to fit, but I hate that phrase.

What are dreams, anyway? Gentle curls of smoke that dissipate when touched? So clear, so thin, that their very existence is a matter of serious debate among bearded scholars in smoking jackets? Are they given life when expelled from the mouth into some willing ear? Is the inkling of a connection, the whisper of a form, a glimmer of a plan enough to will them in to existence? If they are just that, fine beyond palpability, are they born to die unfulfilled? Unrequited? Or in their very fulfillment, shatter into innumerable pieces?

There is one dream that I keep repeating, one that haunts my head during waking hours and those spent in restless sleep. Sunday I watched it gather cinnamon twigs and myrrh then meticulously arrange them into a nest. Before I could stop it, the slender twist of gray blossomed into flaming death. The smell was fragrant. The golden plumage was arresting as it combined with the blazing petals. My eyes watered from the smoke.

I pronounced it dead and pressed my fingers to my forehead. A noise. A stirring came from the ashes. I was left with that emotion, coveted when life is most dim, hope.