I had a dream where we gathered by the lake to watch a storm roll onto us.
The water changed from grey to black- the rain-pocked surface sailing closer.
You looked green.
You had your eyes fixed on the horizon, and I stared at you hoping you'd turn.
As a kid, I used to experience movies this way.
The action on the screen was less important than my mother's smirk, or subtle acknowledgement of content she'd hoped I had missed.
I would laugh when she laughed.
She would eventually ask me to stop my stare- claiming it made her uncomfortable- so I would turn in such a way that any glint of her smile could catch in my peripheral vision.
When I watched you in my dream, you never gave me a glance, but the scene reflected in your eye gave me something else.
We both see the same storm.
It looks as scary to you, as it does to me.
That gave me hope.
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