The climax of that dream — if dreams can be said to have plots — was my sister's demand for a passport.
Somehow, she had found out about my plans for a quick trip to London and insisted upon coming along. I've never been out of the country, she said. It's not fair.
Impossible, I said. You can't get a passport. How could you even apply for one? Technically, you don't exist.
In this recurrent dream, my sister returns to resume her ordinary life some 10 or 11 years after what we thought was a permanent departure. It seemed at first that she was only stopping for a short visit, and while we were glad to see her, we kept things as low key as possible, not wanting to draw undue attention to this unusual situation. As time went by, however, we realized she had no intention of returning whither she had come. In fact, she never felt need to share with us where she had been for the last decade.
Independent as ever, she made no excuse for her sudden reappearance. And her appearance was quite good, all things considered, given what she had been through, especially that well documented and properly witnessed cremation.
Don't misunderstand. We were all delighted to see her again. But as always, she took so much for granted and didn't even stop to consider that she was in a unique position, having resumed her corporeal form without fanfare or fuss. All she wanted, it seemed, was to go back to her life, such as it was, and no one dared question how or why. At first, in the glow of family reunion, she seemed happy enough just to be here, to visit occasionally, to catch some of the best movies she'd missed.
Then came the demands, above all, of course, for her horn.
What do you mean, you sold it, she asked, not needing to raise her voice a single decibel to get my full attention. Luckily, I had kept its sterling mouthpiece among my small trinkets and treasures. That kept her busy for the moment, practicing her stiff embouchure on squeaky, unamplified scales.
LSM
March 6, 2008
rev March 17, 2008
© 2008 Lanora S. Mueller. All rights reserved.
