My dreams are plagued by a recurring nightmare about a tidal wave.
It begins with a hush and a roar and the realization that it’s too late to run.
I don’t run — not because it’s too late, but because there’s something else for me to do before the water comes.
I believe there’s still a way out, but the way out isn’t by running.
I hear a cry and look up to see a little boy, perched high on an apartment balcony or a tree limb. He is terrified and alone and I know it’s my job to save him from drowning.
I do reach him. For a few brief moments there is peace as his small hand slips into mine. He smiles at me, and we are safe.
It’s not logical, to believe that a tidal wave will stop because of hands making contact. Yet in my dream, it always does.
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