Dramaturgy

I dream about them, all of them, mother, sisters, and it wakes me, and I get up even though it is my day off and it is still dark.  I check the weather-- it's not exactly raining but the air is definitely wet.  Eventually the sky changes colors, dark-dark gray becomes light gray, call it dove gray or pigeon gray or pearl.

I can't remember the dream, only who was in it and that I was being spoken to, everything was directed at me, and that it seemed almost like a play I was watching or I was in, either, both.

I wonder if I'd had a brother would we still be close.

The sky is becoming lighter and lighter-- "morning has broken."  I sang that song in sixth grade chorus.  In sixth grade I realized I liked a boy more than I liked Jackie Donvito, this boy who liked Jackie Donvito more than me, I suppose.  Funny, I remember her name, but not his.

In sixth grade I was punched in the face for not sitting in my seat on the bus.  Who does that?  Who punches a boy in the face for disobeying the bus driver?  Not the bus driver, but some blonde-haired bully with a rock for a hand.  My school pictures that year featured the purple ring of black-eye.  These days, Photoshop would have fixed that.

That I've made it this far without being punched in the face again-- is that a testimony to the kind of man I've become?

The sky is feathered, gray, blue, white.

What were they telling me, mother, sisters?  What were they saying?