More Dreams

For the first time since Momma died, I dreamed about her. I've dreamed about dad a couple of times. Oddly, in my last dream about him and this one about her, they were both young, maybe mid-thirties.

I was in the back seat of the car, and she was dropping me off at Bankston School, at the door between the cafeteria and the auditorium. I was not a child. I had an invitation to a class. I did not remember why I was invited.

I carried my laptop in its case slung over my shoulder. As I exited the car, I asked, "Someone will pick me up?" She did not hear me and I did not repeat myself, but shut the door and walked inside the school building. This is where the dream became one of my recurring ones. I have written before about my recurring dream that I am about to preach but I have not studied. I have had some form of that dream over and over and over.

This recurring dream, like the latter, takes different forms but the essence is the same. I am in a school and looking for my room. I might be a teacher, a student, or in this case, a guest speaker. The school is huge, and I walk though halls and rooms and basements and up and downs stairs, and I cannot get where I'm trying to go. In this one I kept saying to myself, I know this school, I spent six years here. 

After what seemed like an eternity, I found the office. A child was sitting behind the glass. After telling him my name, he responded with, "Mrs. Spacer, room 107."

"Where is 107?" I asked.

He didn't know. I noticed that 106 was scribbled on the opposite wall so it can't be far, right? Wrong. I went back to the wild walking though endless halls that led into rooms and out the far door and on and on and on. Poor Mrs. Spacer. If she only knew how hard I tried to get there.