Sam, a sixtyish lawyer with his own practice had the looks but never the time. Living ocean front in Florida left him little time as he seemed to be always entertaining family. Single and looking, he dated occasionally but unfortunately, more ended as a hook-ups. Women his age had more baggage than a transatlantic cruise. Nevertheless he enjoyed his active life.

So it was that mid-summer night that Sam experienced a dream much like any other of his recurring flying dreams. He soared high above the architecture of the city. At random, arms outstretched, through the dark, toward the unknown. His legs stretched long, his toes pointed back.

As a child he’d grown to love the freedom that these flying dreams offered. As an adult, they were pure ecstatic release of all human accountability.

Why then did this particular one take on a progressively different tone? A rust tinged odor. A mix of dust, stone and fresh human debris?
And what was that sound? A sonic boom-like blast as he, in his dream, floated from his warm, soft bed?
Why, as he sees when he circles ’round, is his bedroom and bed splayed wide for all the world to see? His space for sleep and secrets to keep made into a stage scene. His blue coverlet looking like it was chosen by a cold, uncaring stage crew. At least they had the sense to remake the bed.

This dream is transforming into one of those hallucinatory trips that he cant keep track of. But he does know he‘s still flying.

He sees, as he dips and swoops that all of other apartments have been exposed also. All of the walls of the building, just gone.
Jesus! Why would anyone ever choose that pattern for a rug? But it’s hanging off the building. Where are the people?
Bunk beds, couches, washing machines, beds, beds, and more beds. Rugs and more rugs. But no people.
This dream has turned into a nightmare.

He hears someone calling his name from afar. It’s muffled. They repeat it over and over. Suddenly he’s faced with layers of fractured concrete, rebar, tons of building debris and an airless, noiseless tomb.

He’s given a choice.

His dream transforms back to flying. It invites him back. With both hands he grabs hold.
Arms outstretched. Through the dark he flies toward the unknown. His legs stretched long, his toes pointed back.
He soars with a smile back to his condo, snuggles under the blue covers, takes a slow, deep breath and tries to sleep.
As comfortable as it is, the dream compels him back.
He feels his arms, gossamer, lift from the bed.
His torso, now impalpable, follows. Legs, feet, head, all are aeriform.
An accelerated, progressive transformation of middle-age Sam to celestial Sam occurs.

As a child he’d grown to love the freedom that these flying dreams offered.
As an adult, they were pure ecstatic release of all human accountability.

Sam is now vaporous.

He smiles with joy as he flies and floats around the universe, the heavens as we know them and all that we don’t.

Sam is living the dream.

NB Wilde
7.21.21