Friday, March 06, 2009


I dreamt I was on a plane.

It was night, full dark, and as we were rolling from the gate to the runway, I noticed out the window what appeared to be a shower of gumballs falling on the city skyline. Someone said it looked like there was a lot of steam, and I said that no, I thought it was bombs. Missiles.

It was. We were under some kind of attack. Hundreds of bombs were falling everywhere, and just as we realized this, the attack reached the airport. Runways exploded into fire. I could see planes backing up because none of them could take off into a sky full of death. Our pilot began driving the plane towards a bridge under the runway, presumably in an attempt to hide from the barrage of missiles.

My purse (the same one I carry now) was on the floor under my feet, and I grabbed it. I wanted to find my phone. I had to text my dad. I was pretty sure the world was coming to an end. I didn't remember that my dad doesn't know how to text. It didn't matter.

The plane reached the bridge, and I could see a double-length city bus ahead of us, also using the overpass as a means of escape. I watched as a missile broke through the concrete ceiling and pierced the bus's skin. It twisted violently, it's two segments rotating away from each other, and then it disappeared inside a massive explosion. I frantically typed, "I love you" and hit send on my phone. Everything under the bridge was fire.

I knew our plane was next. I woke up.

I laid in the dark for nearly an hour, replaying the dream over and over again, torn between relief at having woken and strange desire to return to that place. Who would want to attack our city? Was it happening all over the world?

I thought that I should have selected "send to all" on my text message. But there hadn't been time to think. And I imagined the phone lines were probably all busy anyway, unless I was dying at the very beginning of The End, before the wireless networks had jammed or blown up.

I thought about what I would have done if I'd managed to escape the plane: I'd head out on foot, dodging falling missiles and debris, hiding in shadows along buildings. I'd follow the river home from the airport, traveling only at night to avoid whatever (whoever) was so hell-bent on the destruction of our metropolis.

I mapped out the journey in my head, imagined that it might take as many as three days to get home. I wondered if he would be there, holed up in the apartment, watching for my unlikely return, mourning my assumed demise at the airport?

Would the building even be there?

When finally I slept again, I dreamt I was back in Idaho.