I walked into my childhood room. Immediately I knew it had to be a dream. I was an adult, married, had kids, grandchildren. I hadn’t been in that room since I was at most, eleven. We’d moved the summer after fifth grade, I never saw the room, nor even that house again. Yet there I was.
As I stood just inside the doorway I looked across to my bed, and my sister’s, both against the opposite wall. There was a window, next to Nancy’s, of course, she being the oldest, looking out over our small backyard. Her bed was made, mine not. I doubt if I’d ever made my bed.
I looked at my toys, not baby toys, I must have been on the older side then. A plastic horse, Barbies, naked of course. My little phonograph sitting on the table. I only remember one record that I had, “Strawberry Hill,” I think it must have been called. It certainly wasn’t a children’s record. I wonder if they even had those then.
On the dresser were combs and brushes, used by Nancy only, I never brushed my hair. No make-up, even Nancy was too young for that back then. There was a picture tucked in the mirror of some movie star she liked. I moved to see who it was, but the dream started fading as soon as I tried to really be there.
When I woke up I felt so warm and cozy. It felt like I’d just gotten back from a lovely trip. I decided right then and there to call Nancy, we hadn’t talked for a while. We had a lovely chat later that very day.
You just never know how many days you have left, you know, you really have to make sure they all count.