Reflections on 13 Lonely Months

Thoughts I’ve recorded while waiting for my body to build an antibody militia

For the past few weeks, I’ve awoken each morning at 6:15 from a dream. It’s never quite the same dream, but it always follows a predictable narrative:

I’m walking through an airport, or a bus station, or I’m wandering through a city on foot. I have a tote bag over my shoulder filled to the brim with my things. I’m in danger of missing a flight.

And then the chaos begins. My phone dies. I’m not where I am. My bag falls open at the ticketing counter, or I lose my bag altogether. I become frantic, trying to keep everything straight. I have to find my bag. Where was I last? I’m going to miss my flight.

It’s comical, really, the variations my brain invents. One version had me trotting across my old college campus in search of my car, only to find it with all of its doors left open and my cat (which I had left in it?) gone missing.

But the next element of the dream always makes me sad.

At some point in my harried journey, I come upon an old friend. The friend is always different, but they’re always someone who was once dear to me. And they’re always having fun with other people.