Last night I fell asleep still half-tipsy on a familiar couch and dreamt I was thirsty.
Nothing slaked it. I downed cup after cup of water. I found myself gulping liquid from a boot that never emptied and never satisfied me.
We came eventually to an open green park with a glass house at its center, no more than a shed. In it was a bed, and as I hurried to the other end of the grass for a bottle of Gatorade I realized that in the bed was my grandmother.
I approached her with caution, realizing even in hazy dream logic what I know to be true when awake, that she’s been dead some three years now. Expecting a hollow-eyed cadaver, an overpowering stench, nothing more than bones.
But I opened the door and Oma turned to me, weary but lucid, and handed me a card, the Queen of Cups.
“Tell me what this means. For you. Tell me what you see.”
I woke up and chugged a glass of water. I told my friends a bit about my dream, about the thirst, but not the meeting.
Later I left and walked around the neighborhood to kill time before my train back into the city, watching the snow melt to creeks under my feet, ice rupturing like membranes over the oceans underneath.