Yes, But Only With You

In my dream, we claim the lonesome shady oval of the dandelion field and lounge on a blanket whose only sentiment is that we are both impressed by its color.

And the bills are paid. The dogs are fed. The kids are off on their own adventures.

We joke about games we used to play, ones we still do. And our laughter is taken by the breeze, seeping through the neighborhood to be mistaken for the television next door.

And we are old but not in pain.

In my dream, you smile like you are plotting something clever. Then, you ask, “Wanna get out of here?” “Absolutely,” I gush because, ever since our first journey to Texas and back, I’ve been ready.

We pay off the house, pack up the dogs, and tell the kids we'll be off for a while.

We finally honor that bucket list of just out of reach places we’ve always wanted to meet, ones that become a part of who we are. And our excitement is observed by locals, melting into their ordinary day as a glimmer of something hopeful.

We are old and so curious about the world.

In my dream, we are settled in the rental full of memories and clutter. We drink spiked cider on the patio and watch the dogs wrestle. We still muse, after all these years, of starting new hobbies, changing careers.

The kids have sold their homes, brought their dogs, of course, and are heading somewhere we’ve never met before.

I smile like I am planning something outlandish. You know what it means, don’t have to ask. “Let’s pack the van,” you say. And the exodus stirs our little world: neighbors, colleagues, friends. But the dandelion field remains unbothered, awaiting other dreamers and their blanket of sentimental color.

We are old, and this age has given us everything.