Last night I dreamt about my family. The confused experiences of the day dissolved with the coming of night and her attendant sprites of sleep and darkness. The rattling timbers and the fluttering of birds in the attic above me kept me awake but sleep and dreams descended on me eventually.

I was a child again in the arms of those who loved me. I knew them through touch, taste and soft noises. Even then part of me was alone, disenchanted with the rosy glow of the night light and the voices in the next room. My brother was with me then and in my dream I saw him as a mottled dog that romped and chased its tail. We played at being brothers.

Now the crushing years of indifference have built a wall between us but then the laughter of the moment ran amok around the house. We grew up and apart as people often do, too wrapped in self to see the sanctity of family.

This gossamer dream drifted off and left me alone in bed again. The wind wept in sympathy and gulls cried from afar. To hold the past against one’s chest is to play the fearless tune of death. All about me the muddled madness lurched yet in my bed I heard my heart and kept my head.