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Even the sweetest of dreams

Can taste like nightmares

Brittney Trickey
​In my sleep, they come back to me.
When I’m lucky,
only the good parts will find me here.
Memories of my old home,
of the old me,
of the ghosts of my family.
When I open my eyes to this dream that holds my most precious memories,
to the ones that somehow hurt me more than all the rest,
it is always the same. . .
I’ll watch the sun stream through the window in dusty beams as it kisses my mother’s face.
I’ll sit with my grandmother as she crochets and watches Cold Case.
I’ll lay on my back in the grass and watch our cat catch summer flies.
I’ll toss a ball around with my brother and play a game of chase.
We’ll listen to my father play guitar and pretend it might actually take him someplace.
I’ll play one last time with our dog in the front yard and wish with all my heart that he wasn’t gone.
When I watch the sun cut past the trees and down below the train tracks,
it will be for the last time,
and for the thousandth.
When I wake up,
I will have lost them all over again.
Now safe only in my dreams.
Picture
Piper Simons | Backlash | Mixed Media

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The Salal Review is published annually by the students of Lower Columbia College enrolled in Arts Magazine Publication. Copyright @2020 and @2021 The Salal Review and the individual contributors. No portion of the publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the express permission of the individual contributor.
 
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