Last night I dreamed that I was at a rustic cabin retreat deep in the mountains, long shadows and minimal sunlight. We were a gathering of poets. Someone asked me to make coffee, and though I searched everywhere for a pot to boil water in, I found nothing suitable. I had seen one earlier, but I let it get away. And then I couldn’t find it again. I rummaged through dark cabinets. On the bottom shelf, there was an ornate plastic punch bowl with a metallic sheen, matching cups, and a variety of small vases, but nothing big enough for boiling water over a camp stove, or an old fireplace. John Oliver Simon, who had asked me for the coffee, said he would take me to a place where there were larger vessels. I thought it odd at the time because he had me ride piggyback, so I rode him like a horse and centaur as we traveled across creeks and meadows, traversing glorious mountain passes that took my breath away. The blue netting covering his face was like a mask, but it was slipping, so I straightened it for him, tenderly stroking the face of my old love. We never did find the pots. The journey was the goal. When I awoke, it was as if he were Charon and we were crossing the River Styx, but I had no coins by which to pay him. It was another visitation dream. And somehow it felt like an old debt had been repaid.
the last travel dream I had with John was right before his death: John Oliver Simon dream
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