Flake

In the dream, I carried my child in my arms. A son, all white hair and plump flesh, he fit so snugly in my grasp and looked at me with his wise blue eyes. We sat in the backyard of the house where I grew up, my parents inside, waiting. He was so small, he should have been too young to speak, but when he turned to me, the questions were perfectly formed. Where are we? he said humbly. We are at grandma and grandpa's house, I replied. But where is our house? Where do we live? he continued.

There is no 'our house'. 
We have no home. 

No matter the silliness to follow, something about seals in icy waters in the same backyard, no matter the long scene before this, mostly concerning a water well in a town square, no matter the nonsense of dreams as the leftover debris of a long day, getting swept up and carried off to the dumpsters of the mind.

In my dream, I carried my son in my arms, and told him we had no home.

If I ever have children, in the waking world, I pray they know how to pack a light bag.