The recurring dream that needled me for decades was about forgetting the combination to my locker, or realizing that I have cut class all term and today is the exam. Friends have confessed enduring a similar theme. This is, by the way, forty years out from graduation, with no shred of possibility that I will regress to the status of high school student. I am currently subbing as faculty in that arena, but no troubling dreams have been forthcoming. 

 

In the last few months, though, another nighttime variation on failure has cropped up. I remember that I have a yard full of yappy dogs, or chickens, and forgot to feed them. For weeks. Not from any malicious intent, mind you. It just slipped my mind. They are pecking futilely at the empty bowls, and looking up at me with big eyes. Sad, but not angry, they feel forgotten. I am horrified at my own negligence for sentient beings who trusted me to care for them. Then I wake up. 

 

Let me hasten to assure you that in the four years I kept chickens I was dedicated. In sweltering weather and frigid, filling their swinging dishes, and replenishing bowls of water was my first task every day after pulling on pants. My family hinted at times that I was too dedicated, if such a thing exists. 

 

I have never had a dog, though for a few months enjoyed the one belonging to our upstairs renters. His name was Indiana Bones, and he would curl up beside my sewing chair, and follow me into the living room asking for nothing more than companionship. I had no responsibility to feed Indie, or take him on walks, or any of the other bothersome duties inherent to dog ownership. His people worked during the day and it was my pleasure to pet him at my feet. Only once did I not notice him there and accidentally stepped on his tail. A mistake he quickly forgave. 

 

In trying to pry meaning out of the persistent dream, I wonder about other parts of my life that need nourishment. My marriage sometimes goes for long stretches without more than a peck on the check and quick hello. Not really the stuff of endurance. I have friends who may feel as if I have forgotten them, and would gobble an hour of attention. How long do I expect them to run on empty? 

 

It occurs to me that these prophetic dreams hold a glimmer of hope. The birds are not dead. I have not yet failed the course. Perhaps they are giving me a chance to do better. To wake up. I may even be granted forgiveness.