Solomon’s funeral was like nothing I’d ever been to. I knew there were a lot of Native American traditions that didn’t translate well, but this was something special. I can’t even begin to describe it. Kish was rightfully sad, so was I. He was an old man, but still it was sad to lose such a man. But it was a happy celebration.
Everyone was smiling. There was dancing and parties. But Solomon’s house was empty. His wife had passed years ago. I hadn’t been able to make it back for it. I regretted I wasn’t there for Kish them. She’d been there for me when I’d lost my mother. Though I had avoided her and everyone else for the better part of a year. It wasn’t until Kate that I came home. If this was what I called home anyway.
We’d never stayed in one place long. This was the one place we came back to over and over again. It was nice to have some place even if it wasn’t really home.
The fireplace had been cold for days despite the dismal cool mountain air. The firewood bin was near empty like all the wood had been moved for just this occasion. Knowing Solomon it probably was. He probably saw it in the smoke or something, that I’d need to get to the lose plank.
I had to use my pocket knife to pry the wooden plank up, it was been wedged in tight after all these years. I wasn’t sure that this was my father’s journal but when I picked it up I knew the man thought he was my father. And the journal was supposed to help me.
I sat down on the fireplace hearth and flipped the leather bound cover open. It read. “My Dearest Alex. I don’t know why I can’t be there with you, and I’m glad I don’t know. But I love you, and I hope that my journey through the dream world can help you in the long journey of life. Love, your father, Tom Kennedy.”
I ran my fingers down the etched in ink and wished that my ability worked with touch of objects. But I wasn’t that kind of path. I was unique among Kish’s clan – I had three abilities. Rare was not even the world they used to describe it. Telepathy had come early, the voices in my head had drawn me to dangerous heights, but my mom was always there to save me, to pull me back until I learned to control it all. And then I was seven when the dream walking kicked in. I’d always dream of the same boy. That first year was peaceful, we played and became friends while I learned about my ability, and then he started getting ripped away from me by the shadowed figure and I couldn’t find him. Kish helped me understand the dream world and he was my test subject. He never complained, he was always willing to let me experiment. It lead me to believe he wasn’t real. But Kish said that draw is there, you feel it so he must be real. But no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get him to reveal the truth to me.
And then as I grew into my dreams walking ability I could see the connections between people. See the cords that bound them to one another. I could sever them and repair them but I couldn’t see my own. And I hadn’t looked at Pretty Boy’s either. Not that I could find him even if I hadn’t wanted to see it.
If he was asleep I was always drawn to him.
The next page was dated in the mid 70s. My father’s hand writing was childish at best. It read. ‘Solomon told me to keep a journal of my dreams. Last night I dreamt of HER again. The blond ringlets and the blue eyes. She’s so pretty.’
There was entry after entry of ‘Her’ as he learned how to control his dream much like I had done.
When he was 13 he wrote: “Today I asked her her name – she told me to my surprise. Emily. Emily Hansen. I kissed her and told her I’d find her one day.”
My dad had dreamt of my mom. The similarities to my own life was strong.
As I sat and read the beginning of the whirlwind romance of my parents Kish walked into her grandfather’s room. She jumped when she saw me. “Alex, I didn’t know you were in here.”
I held up the journal. “Just retrieving my dad’s old journal.”
She lifted the book so she could see the cover. “I remember him writing in it. I tried to get you to do it, but…” She trailed off at the fond memories of me disobeying everything she ever taught me.
“Is it any good?” She asked. I knew it was to distract herself from her loss. So I read a few passages to her as we sat there in the fading light. We reminisced about Solomon, my dad and my mom. It was good to talk of the past, of the people who were no longer with us, but the thought that maybe there was more to the pretty boy in my dreams. plagued my thoughts as much as the memories.