When my son, Ben, was in Iraq, I had a lot of vivid dreams.
In one, a child pulled a small dark winged stone from a river.
She brought it to me. My son’s first name, John, the one
we never use, was chiseled into it. In another, Ben was
scaling a cliff. His face was blackened. The air around him
swirled with debris. Often, during the day, I had a waking
dream. It was always the same. I saw him underground
in a concrete room. There were maps spread out on tables
and tacked to the walls. He moved from map to map,
never left the room. My mind held onto that dream truth
because the real truth was too horrible. What do we do
with our dreams? All parents have them. Ben is back,
but I can’t stop looking into the faces of soldiers.
Fran Richey is a yoga teacher and author whose most recent book is The Warrior. www.francesrichey.com
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