JOURNAL, Friday, Jan. 11th

Fold your fleet wings
I’ve brought some dreams to share.
(“Dawntreader”, Joni Mitchell)

This is my dream:

I’m walking along a busy city street with my daughter. It’s evening and the darkness of the sky is complete but there are many lights from the shop windows to help us find our way. The wind whips at us like lost children tugging at our clothes; tiny ice crystals form on the collars and scarves around our faces. We peer in the windows, delighted by what we see inside. We’re so grateful for each other’s company.
I hold onto my daughter’s hand so we won’t be separated. She’s a tiny thing with long dark hair and deep dark eyes that dance when I say her name.

We come to a corner. There are many more people around us now. They’re coming from every direction but they’re all crossing over to the theatre that shines brighter than any other building on the street. We were headed that way anyway so we follow the crowd; they all seem excited about going to the performance.

The revolving doors at the entrance to the theatre turn non-stop. They whisk us in with the crowds of happy families dressed in their finest clothes. It’s warm and bright inside. The lobby has thick carpets and rich covering on all the walls. There are framed posters of the performance everywhere, and we stop in front of each one to dream about the beauty of the show that these people have come to see: a Christmas pantomime.

I lift my daughter up onto my back, piggyback style, so that she can see better and so we will take up less space in the crowded lobby. We enjoy the warmth. We watch all the glowing faces of the families who have come.

I feel like an intruder because I know we don’t have tickets – we could never afford such a luxury. I tell myself that we’ll just stay until the performance begins then someone will surely ask us to leave.

We walk through the theatre lobby and marvel at the dazzling chandeliers, the opulent chairs, the marble staircase winding upwards to another whole level of magnificence. I pretend that this is a normal outing for us, that we live on a regular diet of theatre, concerts and holidays. I pretend that I am giddy with the good fortune that is our life.

As we approach the doors to the grand hall I crane my neck to see inside. Surely it must be even more breathtaking inside the theatre itself. I stay behind the door, peering over the heads of legitimate patrons who are filing into the hall.

“Oh look, Honey.” I whisper to my daughter, her small chin still resting on my shoulder from her perch; she is so light, I hardly feel her weight on my back. “Look at all the colours – look at the lights.”

But we can’t stay in the doorway for long; the flood of people has carried us along into the hall. I turn. I try to make my way back against the crowd saying: “Excuse me. – I’m sorry. – I have to get back into the lobby. – I didn’t mean to come in. – I’m sorry.”

I hold on tightly to my daughter, panic starting at my fingers that are clutching her to my back: I’m afraid the tide that dragged us in may somehow lodge itself between us and would separate us.

I’m desperate. I must get out before I’m thrown out.

But I can’t get out; too many people are coming in. They won’t let me make my way back to the doors. I’m waiting for an usher or a ticket taker to come and expose me – to force me to admit to everyone around me that I don’t belong in such a place, that I’m here without a ticket, without permission, or any legitimate claim to such bounty.

A man walks up to me and takes my elbow; my hands are still awkwardly clasped around my daughter’s back. He is firm as he guides me to the front of the theatre. He smiles at me as he says: “Your seats are this way.” And I recognize that he’s Coach Don Cherry from “Hockey Night In Canada” – I’m shocked to see him here, at the theatre. (Wait until Danny, the hockey nut, hears that Don Cherry was in my dream). Because I recognize him and because he smiles at me, I feel that I can trust Don and that there isn’t any other way out. I follow him down the aisle where he shows us two empty seats. He points to the seats then turns to leave.

Beside my ear my daughter calls out in a voice that is as clear and sweet as a song: “Hi Don.” He turns around to see who has called his name.

I laugh, a little embarrassed: “I didn’t think that she would recognize you,” I stammer. He smiles and asks me how old she is. I tell him with pride that she’s eleven, nearly twelve. He gives me a quizzical look that I don’t understand. Then suddenly, I’m bent double under the weight of this pre-teen child on my back.

I loosen my grip and she extends her leg, puts her foot to the floor and climbs down from my back. I look around, still embarrassed by our intrusion – no one seems to notice us. I sit in my seat and turn to my daughter to point out the delicate scroll work around the stage, when I realize that she is no longer there. I’m surprised but not frightened. I look around, craning my neck and sitting as tall as I can in my seat, pivoting to catch a glimpse of her.

I see her – she’s on the stage, a fully grown woman now, she looks like me. She winks and gives me the thumbs up sign, and I know that it is she who has brought me here, so that she can take part in the performance.

I sit back in my seat and look up at Don who is watching this exchange. I ask him if he would like to sit. He settles into the seat beside me and the lights go down in the theatre and I wake up.

Copyright 2003