Fantasy

A soft breeze moves over the tops of the trees and flutters the pages of my book; it twirls the leaves and sweeps over the tall grass. Where are we? We’re in my dream. This lovely place is modeled after my backyard, but without all the cars going by and the construction going on next door. I love fall: the pumpkins, the leaves, the wind, even the smell of it. I think of my dream place whenever I feel stressed or need to take a vacation.

The wind blows the leaves, which scuttle out from underneath the large pines, and uncovers the beautifully dirty cement sidewalk. The sun is shining, of course, and just peeks through the leaves of the trees, which are a brilliant golden red. The trees cast shadows on the grass and provide a misty aura around the gigantic tree trunks. The moss of the trees covers their coarse bark and creates a soft padding for a recliner. The twigs on the ground are pleasant and cackle softly as they break into pieces under my feet.

There is no sound except the wind and the ceaseless crinkling sound made from turning pages in my book. The occasional squirrel comes by and nibbles on an acorn, then buries the rest for winter. Their scratching at the dirt echoes around the world. There is no banging of jackhammers or honking of car horns to interrupt the balanced melody of nature. The wind, the snapping sticks, and the flipping of the smooth pages of my book blend together into a symphony.

The perfume of the leaves envelops my consciousness and gives me a zing of adrenaline. The incense the sidewalk leaves just after it rains lingers in the air. The air smells fresh and clean and somewhat moist. The fragrance of pumpkins passes by now and again. After the carving, the air is rich with their sweet, beautiful smell. The pumpkins are smooth and cold. The leaves are dry and wrinkled. They crumble at my touch. The sticks break gently and feel rough and dirty. The pages of my never-ending novel are dry and smooth. The pumpkin guts left over from their carving lie in a heaping pile on the dirt. The taste of pumpkin seeds still lingers in my mouth. There is an endless supply of sweet and creamy smooth pumpkin pie with sugary whipped cream and sticky honey.

Sometimes in my dream, I’m reclining against my favorite tree reading my book. I get sucked into the story of winged children and flying mutated wolves. The characters become my life. The black words on the creamy smooth paper capture me and whisk me away to their foreign lands. I follow the cement pathway when I’m taking a break from reading and writing. This path leads wherever I want it to go. Its twists and turns represent life and its ups and downs. It’s beautiful. Grass grows in the cracks in the cement. There are many intersections and forks in the path. Sometimes I have to choose where to go, but I always end up in the same place.

When I’m here in my dream, I feel the happiest. I am completely serene and feel entirely happy. This dream place is really the only place where I can really relax and feel completely at ease. This world of mine, this misty forest that has all my favorite things, unfortunately, is only a dream.

Or is it?