My last memory

Riding on the sherut this morning to Jerusalem, Ali and I began to make up dreams again. It is amazing how easy it is to forget that we’ve had the same dreams and shaken ourselves awake before as well. We are leaning our heads back against the seat. Looking into his greenish gold eyes and again, I forget that I don’t believe in the kind of love that knocks you over, that makes you ridiculous, that makes you think holding hands on a sherut ride is suddenly the most romantic thing you’ve ever done. I’d forgotten to be cynical, I’d left cynicism at home and there I was, loaded down with sappy, syrupy happiness, lost in our ridiculous dreams, dreams that could not be more humdrum if they tried. We’ll get a place together, he says, and make children, and they will have your looks and my craziness. They will be rowdy in the backseat of our car. No they’ll be calm and pensive and full of laughter. We will take a trip, he says, to the mountains, to that hill over there, at least two days. We will make love standing up even, he says, let’s make love here now. I teach him the word for vineyard. I say I’ve always wanted one. He says I’ve always wanted to be a pilot and I say I’ve always wanted to be a journalist, but without the pressure of deadlines. I’ll write my book and we will be millionaires, he says. The day I come back home I will call you and we will take our trip, he says. He promises even. And I forget myself. I forget to not believe him. I am happy. I see it all in front of me. There is nothing more real. When he goes, he has to go, I tell him, keep in touch with me and he smiles. Blows me a kiss. I am ok all day. I come back home. I water the plants and hang the laundry and drink tea on the beach with a friend. I walk and walk and walk and everything is ok. It is only hours later I remember. Hours later I feel myself falling to the floor. He says to me, a dream isn’t something that we have when we’re sleeping, it’s what prevents us from falling asleep in the first place.