Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sometimes, I like to dream of Peter.
It will never be the same as that first night, four years ago, but I can dream. Yesterday we met half way between this world and Neverland. It's a magic place called Echolalia, and he was so sweet. He took me to a wild Victorian on the edge of the sea, chock full of lost souls and their familiars, and we waltzed to the beat of running footsteps on the stair.
He gets upset when I think of Neverland. He knows I can never go back. I'd like to think he might be sorry for getting angry that other night. but Peter Pan has no regrets.
Sometimes the sadness is too much to bare and other dreams get in. Suddenly S. is in the doorway, grinning wickedly, and my heart melts. Robbers are climbing the ivy and creeping through the windows. Water starts to collect round the Victorian, flooding the hall and the servants' quarters first, and then slowly and deliberately slinking up the banister. Peter disappears. He's only alive in my memories, and it's so easy to forget.