Hiding

I have another dream. This is unusual. I don't often dream dreams that I remember. Now I have several in less than a week. In the dream I am going to a friend's office to have my photo taken. When I get there, the walls of the office are draped in black sheets. Many of them. They look like hanging folds of black parachutes. The office is attached to a music studio and that is where the photographer is set up. There are several people ahead of me so I wait, quietly. When it is my turn I go through the black draped door into a larger, rectangular, slightly colder room, also draped in black. This is the studio and there are large black pieces of equipment pushed to the sides of the room. I see a glint of silver here and there. Music stands and set ups for a drum kit. The room is carpeted in a deep, dark red and the lights are very low so everything is in shadow. I pose for a few shots, then wait back in the office to get the prints.

There are two shots, both horizontal, both printed on long, narrow pieces of photo paper, maybe 9 x 14 paper with an inch or so of white on the sides of the photos, as the photos didn't take up the entire width of the page. The photos are grainy and slightly out of focus. I wish they were clearer. In one photo, I smile directly into the camera. In the other my arms are extended about chest height. I am holding a small black object with a red strap, about the size of a camera. But it is not a camera. I am looking toward a lens on the object I am holding. I am shocked when I see the photos. First, I am way too thin. Then, I am wearing pink. Light pink. I never wear pink. And the background of the photos is light. Light pink with some white.

But, I am most shocked because there is a person standing next to me in the photos, to my left side, or on my right as you look at the photo. The person is a well-known celebrity, a cross between a DJ and a television personality, and in both photos he has his right arm tightly wrapped around my waist. The celebrity has a huge grin. In the first photo he is looking at me, in the other, the one where I am looking at the black object in my extended hands, he is looking into the camera. The celebrity is my son. It is Colby. He looks just like Colby, but not quite. He is a little more stylish, a little more at ease.

I rush back into the studio but there is a girl band setting up equipment; the photographer, and all of his equipment, is gone. I ask the girls if they have seen anyone and they shake their heads. I notice a door in the back of the room. I open it and go through into a barn stacked with hay. Sitting above me on one of the bales of hay is Colby. "I can't believe you're not dead," I cry with excitement. Then I get worried that people might harm him for returning from the dead. "But don't you see?" he said to me. "I don't have to hide from anyone or anything anymore."