20 Years

At my 20-year high school reunion (actually happening this year and to which I cannot go), the room teemed with people. And everyone's fates made sense to me: tall willowy Kristen was a dancer and choreographer; Christine had just left an abusive marriage. My gay friend Mark was wandering around in a pink coat, not really talking to anyone. There were of course the usual dream intruders: an East-Indian looking fellow in a tweed vest chided me for not saying hello to him. In the dream I dimly remembered him but in Life I schooled with no such person.

When Josh (my reunion date) went to take a picture of the Senior Prom King and Queen, Bob and Kathy, and another couple, I wept with nostalgia. I wore my Junior Prom dress, a frilly blue concoction, and recalled fondly having been crowned Queen. Even as I marked who was there and visited with them, my mind catalogued so many others I wanted to see. But, in the usual enormity of dreams, I didn't get to everyone in the room.