Eight Hour Holiday

I dreamt I was at the ocean side and everyone was speaking Spanish. Dan and I were showing Ella a small water tank in the middle of a park containing a single red lobster and a single red shrimp. When she pushed the button on the side of the tank lobster food fell from the top of the tank. Small water worn pebbles placed end to end formed a beautiful walkway in a circle around the tank and flanking that were bushes of green moss and more meandering walkways, one leading to our airy cottage and another leading down to a spiral jetty with water clear and blue splashing rhythmically against the white rocks. We were suddenly in a hurry to get to the wedding reception far up on the cliff among the casinos on the promenade.

We walked up the rocks and found our seats at the reception just before they wheeled in the racks of clothes. Each table of guests carefully walked to the endless racks of gowns and suits and tuxedos and carefully picked a new garment. The mood was jubilant as everything fit everyone perfectly. Dan and Ella found a tuxedo and a most perfect gold dress both very flattering. My Grandma found a maroon silk and beaded gown that seamed to cinch in just the right places. I looked down to find myself wearing a black thick wool pencil skirt and a pink knit double breasted sweater with a yellow stain on the front. I buttoned it up the other direction so the stain was on the inside and someone walking by commented about how perfectly the outfit suited me.

Next we were dancing and playing cards, and deciding which grotto to visit to order more clams and scallops. We sat at tall tables on tall chairs flipping cards up and pushing chips towards the middle, occasionally pulling some back in, laughing with recognizable strangers while snapping photos. Wine glasses clinking in the background and the warm golden hue of the setting sun against the maroon tones of the room seemed to make the different languages sink deep within the velvet we were sitting on.

In the twilight of the evening we walked back to the seaside. Meandering up pathways elusive and familiar I knew the way home but couldn’t articulate it when trying to hard to think about which way to turn. Down limestone stairs, through a short tunnel under the roadway, back up limestone stairs, out into a memorial field of beautiful green moss with sun bleached headstones jutting up in spiral patterns seeming to point again to the ocean. I had to resort to watching the ocean rise and fall with the waves and letting me feet have their own way to navigate back to the rented cottage.

Then the dream was breaking up into chunks and Ella was saying something about breakfast.