Unsensical Dreams Make the Most Sense of All

It was a lovely summer day. Not one of those hot, late-summer muggy days. Just warm enough so that the forest was one melting pot of sensory headiness; golden green sunlight filtering through the leaves, a warm breeze that lingered to cuddle me as I progress, fragrant earth and tree bark. Trails wind throughout the woods like a maze, close at some points so that you can high-five your fellow forest-dwellers, distant at others so that their laughter is all you can hear. Purple star shaped flowers blooming; baby's breath in its natural habitat.

Up ahead and to my right the tall trees widen, showing me another path of their own accord. Far along this path I spy lumpy gray lifeforms, laying desolate. I steer my purple bicycle their way. On closer inspection these lumps are sleeping jellyfish/octopi hybrids. Mildly disturbing. But just beyond the clearing continues; just beyond in the clearing is a multitude of white-tail deer! Bucks of all stages, docile does, and frolicking spotted fawns. The misplaced lumps are dismissed as I eagerly but quietly pedal my way amongst the deer.

The deer are most friendly; they patiently approach me, nuzzling and licking my outstretched palm. The fawns even cuddle in to my hugs just like my dog at home. Delighted! To my right is a brick abode; partially built into the ground with outdoor wooden staircases connecting all the levels. A bustle of activity. Hobbits water the multi-colored flowers in the window boxes while peasant folk set out crusty loaves of bread and pitchers of beer on picnic tables for industrial workers. A pleasant hum is created by the living.

Past the hostel I ride my bike, towards a tall, white stucco mansion built where the woods grow thicker. Noise of a different sort is coming from this place. I dismount, take a few steps. Hear a thundering, yet familiar voice from inside: "WHO'S BEEN PETTIN' MY DEER?!"
Uh oh.

I beat a retreat to the brick hostel, winding my way through all the various inhabitants, trying to find a place to hide. In my minds eye I accurately see the mansion-dweller hunting me, shotgun in the air. It's my step-father! I know he is harmless; a little off-his-rocker, certainly, but incapable of hurting anyone, much less me. Yet still I am compelled to flee. I reach the end of the hostel, and dart my eyes around trying to find a good spot to hide. "Stay there!" says a voice; I turn my head to my left to see the source. It's Matt Damon. In fully-armed Bourne mode. "I'll take care of this." He reassures me. "But! My bike! My purple bike!" I yell after him as he lopes past me towards the open ground in front of the brick building. I sit and wait. But not for long.

Yelling draws me into the open. Damon is running towards me, my bicycle hoisted in the air in one hand, his hand gun in the other. Effortlessly he tosses the bike to me, I take it and jump on it in one swift movement. Ray is hot on his heels, shotgun waving in the air. "NO ONE TOUCHES MY DEEERRRRRRRRRR!!" Matt Damon pivots; gun pointed at Ray. "She's your step-daughter Ray! You know that her weakness is cutesy wootsy animals!" Cut to Ray. He's laughing, good-naturedly. "I can't believe you bought this!" He says to Damon as he shoots a stream of water out of the neon-colored super soaker he's suddenly been holding the whole time in place of a shotgun. Enter my mom, dish towel in hand. She flings it over her shoulder, "Son, stop being so serious." (Matt Damon is my brother.) "Emily, go play with your pets." I'm already on my way back to the midst of the deer pack. "Ray, clean up for supper."

End on the busy brick hostel, still full of its incongruous inhabitants, now joined by my still more improbable family. Picnic tables are brought out, bedecked in red checkered cloths and full of heaping bowls of potato salad and cookies. Laughter and birdsong and sunshine.