Commentaries by Cynthia

It could have been a dream, or maybe it was something more. I’m not sure that it even matters.

She was in her early thirties, an attractive woman I recognized as my mother. In the dream, I was standing beside her in her bedroom, making up the bed when a wad of money fell from the sheets. The thought then occurred to me that I was in the room where my mother had died, and I no longer wanted to be where that painful event had transpired. The bed suddenly moved out into the hallway, and I was sitting on the edge of it. Mother was standing over me, and she said rather matter-of-factly, “Not everyone can feel the things that you feel.” The wad of money reappeared, and she seemed to hand it to me before disappearing from the dream.