I dreamed of hiding in the bushes, with
other young revolutionaries, in fear of a grinding, wheezing plane.
I dreamed the tunnel into the convent,
and that Fatima of all people led us there, but I did not dream Fatima’s
story. It felt like the truth when I
wrote it, though, like the thing which explained exactly who she was, how she
came to be this hard person, always one step distant from everything around
her, always with that sour smile like you’d best take life as a bad joke or
it’d become too unbearable. The
explanation fit the implications of the dream.
I dreamed of visiting the convent, but
at this point I feel vague as to which details I dreamed and which ones I made
up. I know that I crawled out of a wide
bottom drawer in the sacristy, though.