We (me and various members of my extended family--even those who have died) are gathered in what looked like a big treehouse. We are there for a nephew’s 6th birthday party. As folks are getting their party hats on, so to speak, the smell of frying fish and chicken wafts throughout.
Someone yells that we needed ...something. I hop to volunteer to go get the something. Cinnamon and I get into an uncle’s Chevy Impala. There aren’t any parking spaces, so I double, jump out and .. SHIT!
Engine running, door locked, Cinnamon inside.
Panic explodes on the inside of my head.
I try to figure out a way inside the car. Thankfully there was no traffic in fact, no one was on the street. At. All. Still, my head is spinning with what could happen. Running car. Dog inside. Folks at the party waiting for me (and whatever it is I went to get). All the doors are locked, Futility pushes me to try them anyway.
Sweet sassy molasses, the passenger side door isn’t locked. I swing it open, reach across the seats to turn off the car and grab the keys out of the ignition. As I stand, three women with beehive hairdos approach and proceed to enter the car. Appearing mildly miffed by the presence of the dog slows but doesn't stop them. They are chattering away.
I am temporarily stunned into silence but do find voice enough to ask whatthey are doing. Again, miffed that I seem so dense; as it was clear to them I was the ride arranged by the planners of whatever event they were attending. I stumbled out an explanation that I was not, in fact, their ride and they had to get out of the car. I was still frantic to get back to pick up . . . whatever it was I went to pick up for the party and get back before too much longer.
The ladies with the air in their hair start to argue or negotiate when
Cinnamon BARKS and I wake up.
With a headache.
First dream of 2016.
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