I dreamed last night that I was riding in the car with my mom
as the adult I am today.
She reached over and put her arm on mine
and I couldn't help but notice how unusual it felt
but in my dream I couldn't understand why.
As we drove, we didn't speak but it was a comfortable silence.
One where you hear the wind along the car,
you can smell the grass because the windows are down,
you feel the sun on your arm and face.
During the ride I closed my eyes and could see four small journals.
They were mine.
Four different pastel colors with writing all over them.
My stories, my life.
Without words she wanted me to know that she had read them.
That she had been a part of them.
That she was there.
It was a conscious dream.
One where I knew I was dreaming
Yet I knew it was real.
And it was.
And she is.
And that makes me so very happy.