Last Night

I was standing at the top of a building inside a giant glass fish bowl. Suddenly I was tumbling down, down, several stories, and hit the ground in the middle of a church/chapel. The glass shattered into a billion pieces and they all sliced through my skin in an intricate web of crisscrossing gashes. The church people were so nice and helped me to get cleaned up and everything. But my whole body hurt everywhere. So when they wanted to hold my arm, it hurt, or for me to walk with them somewhere, it hurt, almost more than I could bear. I might not be bleeding anymore but it is still tender!


Then later, fully healed, obviously, I saved my entire family. We were on a steep, steep beach watching someone play with a dog. I looked out over the ocean and saw a glassy blackish-green form rising up and blocking out the horizon. It was a giant beast of a wave. Nobody else was looking out there, though.

"We must get off of this beach," I said. "WE MUST GET OFF OF THIS BEACH."

Finally they realized that I was serious and began to make their way up along the winding paths through the dune grass. I grabbed my youngest sister (who was somehow, magically, only about eight years old) and we headed up to the top of the sandy cliff and across the parking lot to this shady area. Everyone else was still coming, so I found a bench that was bolted to a concrete slab in the ground and held tight to it with my sister wrapped around me, bracing ourselves in case the wave managed to make it this far.


Finally the others appeared, followed almost immediately by the creeping, seeping fingers of the edge of that wave, which had climbed that great cliff but only had the energy to soak the bottoms of our pants.

We really are visitors here, sojourners.