Bus

The big bus parked in front of my house looks like an aerodynamic whale in a black tuxedo. The bus pulsates and I feel the vibration of its energy. There are large wheels on the bus, almost cartoon-like wheels, but I know they are only for looks. This bus hovers and flies through the air, through space and time.

It is dark outside. The two people at my door are dressed in black business suits. One is a woman a few years younger than I am with dark red, shoulder-length hair. Her hairstyle is from the 1960s and her face is lined and severe. She is also slightly shorter and carries a walkie-talkie. The other person is a tall, thin, baby-faced man with dark curly hair who is probably in his thirties.

The two people and the bus are here for Colby. Colby is ready and waiting, and is eager to go. He has a duffle bag packed and gives me a hug and a kiss before he heads out the door. I try to grab him, to pull him back. I am frantic. Colby musn't leave! I know if he leaves he will not return. My fear and anxiety grow and the woman blocks the door as I try to run after Colby. She is surprisingly strong. "It's not your time," she says. I understand now that the two people are here not to escort Colby, but to keep me from following him.

Colby turns before he enters the gaping mouth of the whale bus. He waves. He is happy. "I'll check in on you," he says. Then he is gone. The two people and the bus disappear, and I am standing alone in my open front door, the night breeze swirling around my broken heart.

Ragdolls

I see two piles of ragdolls. There must be a dozen or more in each pile. Each doll is seven or eight inches tall and is made of two pieces of material stuffed with rags and sewn together on the sides. The arms and legs of each doll are short and thick and each doll is made of a differently patterned red and white material.

Except for the dolls, which rest on a table that emits a soft red glow, I am surrounded by a misty, swirling blackness. I can see myself from about mid-thigh up. I can feel my feet and legs, but I cannot see them.

I gravitate toward the pile of dolls on the left. These dolls are well-loved. Their fabric is worn and the stitching has unraveled in places. I pick up one of the dolls and hold it, and I am overcome with emotion because I know that it provided generations of children joy and comfort.

Someone I know very well, yet am unfamiliar with, gently takes the doll from my hands and leads me to the pile of dolls on the right. These dolls are brand new. They are decorated with fine lace and bright, red jewels. Like the other dolls, each of these dolls is slightly different from the others.

I get the impression that I belong to this pile of dolls, that these are the dolls I am supposed to bond with. But I love the familiarity of the well-worn dolls and head back to those. Now several people I know very well, yet do not know, gently guide me back to the new pile. This is where you belong, they say without speaking any words. This is where you are supposed to be. The new dolls are lovely. They are breathtakingly beautiful, but I look longingly back at the old dolls. I am incredibly, heartbreakingly sad.

Then, as I turn back to the new pile I see Colby in the distance. He standing with his arms crossed on his chest and is leaning on something, a post maybe, to his left. I can't see what it is for it is shrouded in the black mist. Colby is dressed as I have seen him in other dreams: light blue jeans, white athletic shoes, light blue striped polo shirt. Colby gives me an encouraging nod and a smile before he fades into the swirling mist.

Reluctantly, I turn to the new pile of dolls, pick up a particularly beautiful bejeweled one, and begin to cry. The familiar people I do not know surround me. Everything, they say, will be okay. Is okay. Someday maybe I can believe them.