Dreamscape Five

The where I had been before the old man appeared, I do not recall. But he had asked if he could give me a lift home, and his tractor, well, there it was, equipped with a tandem seat. My mind flitted to the fact that it appeared stream-lined, his tractor, one that I had never seen before, one that was unusual for any plot of land. But what did this former little girl know, she who had grown up betwixt and between the city and the country, there, on that cusp of in-between? A ride is a ride, he was friendly and me in need of having to get…somewhere.

The sound of it, the tractor, was a familiar, pleasant chug-chug-chug, smooth and without hiccup or burp of metal against metal. The thought of oils having been applied and fluids running smooth seemed as recognizable as one’s body functioning without thought, easy and sure.

Did we speak, this old man and I? More like thoughts floating, as I sat behind him, my arms around his wiry chest. Had he gotten down to the ground before I had clambered aboard, he would have been very tall, thin and wiry. As it was now, his legs seemed encased by some shell of the tractor. It comes to me now, I never saw his legs, and really, only knew the back of him. There was red in his shirt – was it plaid? I don’t recall. The feel of the material beneath my fingertips seemed light and airy, but there was most definitely red in it. For awhile. Before it changed.

He never asked me of my intended route, where I needed to be. He simply knew the way, and the tractor moved over land I did not know. But there was no real vision before me other than the back of the old man’s weathered, brown neck, and the feel of his chest beneath my arms as I held on tight, yet I did not fear falling. It just felt good to hold on.

It seemed that we came to a well of some kind. He needed, no, desired the water. I could feel him tremble just before he slipped down from his seat, although I, for some reason, looked the other way. It came to me, again, that I had no need to see his legs, nor how tall he really was. He just needed that water, as if it were a blessing to his soul to be able to drink it, and I knew, without tasting, that it was cool, clean, and clear to invisible.

Just that fast, he was back in his seat again, and we were immediately headed downhill. Without a word, some tenseness in his body, I suppose, he cautioned me to lean back, back, my arms still around his wiry chest, so that we didn’t fling ourselves forward as the tractor headed down a rocky hill. Large rocks, no, boulders more like, were now on either side of us. I did not fear his intentions – he seemed to know his way about. As I leaned back, all I saw before me was blue skies, no clouds, no sun, just an azure sky so expansive that it made me think of a calm, quiet ocean. Beneath my clinging hands that were clasped in front of his chest, I felt the old man’s breathing quicken, as if some change had come over him, I tried to look forward, but we were still going down some steep hill, and I heard him, albeit he was voiceless, that everything would be ok.

It wasn’t, though. As we neared the bottom of the hill, a house came into view. An old country house, low and lean. Just as we neared, it seemed that we were driving straight for a family who was dining in their kitchen, who watched us as if amazed that we had come through their walls, just like that, with no noise, and apparently no damage, for their was no dust nor rubble floating in the air. There they were, and there we were.

It was then that the old man raised his left arm, high, over his head, as if helloing the house and its people. Something was wrong. His heart was bumping beneath my hands, erratically, hard, and now he was too warm, too moist, and I could see a fine shimmer of sweat appear on the side of his left cheek, as beads of water started to appear on his brow. The man at the table herded his children off to the side, fear on his face. The tractor was slowing, slowing, and voices all around me, some light and airy, some deep and ponderous, were talking.

Come, old man.

Yes, please, come home now.

Old man, it is time, and little girl, tell him.

Yes, yes, please, came the voices, tell him it is ok to let go.

The man kept his left arm raised, the tractor had stopped, but the chug chug chug of the motor continued, like a heart, beating steady, trying to hold onto the heart that lurched in the old man’s chest, as if grasping for one last gasp of air.

All around me, the voices, some light, some deep, told me what I needed to say, aloud, into the old man’s ear. I could smell him now, a deep musky smell, of a life well lived, still half here, but half gone already, some sense of straining still to be felt beneath my arms as he now fell back onto my breasts, as if we were still going down hill, but we weren’t moving at all.

“It’s ok now, sir. It’s ok now, to let go.”

I think the man stands for security, or the need to feel secure. The part about letting go has to do with change. Part of you wants things to remain the same forever, while part of you understands that sometimes change is necessary and good.