In My Dreams the Walls Tremble (continued)

From Exercise #3

I stared down at him as I slowly walked past, part of me hoping he would, at that moment, come to and recognize me so I could find out what’s been happening to him. But he didn’t and I went on, trying my best not to look back.

When I boarded a bus, I stood and stared out—all the houses, stores, people, laughter, and conversations congealing into a dim gray hum. I couldn’t stop thinking about Cody, picturing him still there, passed out on the street. All that I’d done, all that the other counselors had done at the residential home had not helped him one bit. In all likelihood, we weren’t going to be able to help the other kids we currently had at the house. There was no sense in being cheery and delusional about it. The walls were stacked and collapsed on them from the very beginning; they had mounds of rubble to try and sift through before they could even walk, before they could remember anything. In the end, we were changing nothing, not doing anything positive for them, really. Our intentions were good but it didn’t mask the fact that I wasn’t doing anything good with my life.

My feet plodded along on autopilot, taking me aboard a BART train to Oakland, to my Lake Merritt apartment where I could collapse and forget all those thoughts. I took a seat, nestled my bag between my feet, and leaned my head to rest on the cold window.

I awoke on the other side of the bay where the sun shone through the train. The palms of my hands were irritating me. I looked at them and saw that I’d dug my fingernails into them--from clenching my hands into fists.

In the dream, I was startled by an intruder who had broken into my home. He was totting a gun, wearing a black ski mask. I shot up from my bed and stared at him as he pointed and waved it at me, slurring commands and threats like I’ll blow your brains out, motherfucker. Don’t try me. Don’t try me!

When he stepped closer, his eyes ping-ponging through the slits in his mask, I felt this great ball erupt within me—from my stomach up to my throat. This ball, this swirling force bunched up and stayed there as though there was a dam in my throat that was holding it back. I stared at him. I could feel that he was more scared than me. I planted my feet firmly on the ground and clenched my fists as I reared towards him.

Between the Tigrus and Euphrates Rivers,
In this land we now call The Rock,
Nothing remains of the belt of morning spent
at the cusp of the valley where the first of us,
Would watch the clouds come, in empire droves,
Only the fall at the first touch of sun.

He dropped the gun as his hands shot up to cover his ears. Behind him, the walls trembled from my words. He was backing out of the apartment, towards the front door.

Leave me, friend, even if you do not know this,
I have little to give but well wishes on
the big swim ahead.

With that last line, my words flung him out of the door, his arms flailing, past the railed walkway to the other apartments which overlooked the lake. He flew backwards into the body of water, his splash sending the ducks around him into flight.

When I recalled this dream, my eyes squinting from the daylight, I immediately thought of my grandmother in The Philippines. I remembered the time we had walked along a beach, a few years before. I was always one of her favorite nephews since I looked like her father when he was my age.

“Keep writing your poems, anak,” she said as I walked with her arm between mine, her soft brown eyes staring at the sand beneath us. “You have a gift, a gift that can’t be learned, a gift that is passed to a few. No matter what you do, where you go, never forget it. It’s who you are. It’s something that no one will ever be able to take from you as long as you give it sun and water.”

When I got home, I went through one of my drawers and took out the writing notebook I hadn’t touched in months. I sat against my bed, staring at the door, and wrote a poem for her. I read it aloud, hoping that somehow she could hear it, perhaps later in her dreams.

“I’m giving myself sun and water again. Thanks for reminding me, mama.”