I dreamt I was underwater with a big brown dog swimming toward me. The closer it came, the bigger it got. Bigger and bigger and bigger. Its paws like shovels coming at my face. But every time it lifted its head for air it floundered and grew small again. And so it went. Hour after hour.
I dreamt I was eating apples in a haystack. I’ve never been in a haystack. All I know of haystacks I learnt from John Steinbeck.
I dreamt of my feet detaching from my body and floating up to heaven to visit my grandmothers who took them on a grand adventure.
I dreamt I was so famous you could right click on my name to get the correct spelling.
I dreamt I had a tiny baby in my womb. She unzipped my skin and started to climb out, eager to see the world. I coaxed her back in with a Mozart sonata and a cup of tea and hoped she would stay there.
I dreamt of home, of lying in sun so bright it bleached my hair white and turned my bones to dust. I flew across the surface of the hot ground and was swept back to Maman.
(Maman is the Nyoongar word for God or Creator.)